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capslocked · 1 month

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PROXIMITY

male reader x chou tzuyu

25k words

You’re not a bad person. And you know how that sounds apropos of nothing - defensive, unscrupulous - but it’s true. You’re like anybody else: full of mistakes, but good, mostly.

You are also aware of the way she looks at you. None of that has changed.

The slight quirk at the corner of her lips. A flicker, a smirk. A game, all doe-eyed and deep dimpled - she's playing the seduction one. It isn’t subtle, and you're losing by proxy. So you're backtracking, drawing your conclusions; you're reading into the line of her jaw, the fall of her hair. Measuring the weight behind each blink.

"You were wrong by the way," Tzuyu starts, indifferent. Through some act of divine retribution, she laughs. "Because to tell you the truth, I used to have, like, the biggest crush on you."

She’s young, and - well, she’s a lot of things. A terrible idea. Incredibly off-limits. She is anathema, red tape, an original sin. You shake your head at her, smile fading - which for anyone keeping score, is an admonishment, however faint.

Because Chou Tzuyu, you recognize, is categorically, unequivocally: never supposed to happen.

If you want a read on your current dilemma, then this is how it pans out:

You’re walking headfirst into one of the multiple terrible, terrible scenarios you've probably had an anxiety dream about. It’s an ambush, really.

There’s the text from Mina, explaining all the ins and outs of her winter hideaway, the logistical whereabouts, and the pinched photo from the outside, the endless winding driveway, the clearing in the woods. The remote location, the unfussed snow, the towering trees. There are no neighbors to speak of, just seclusion and isolation and that makes you, among the seven billion or whatever, the only one who will know precisely how fucked you are.

The door to the cabin swings open on its hinges. You kick the snow off your boots, and the air smells indistinctly of peppermint tea.

It’s a cozy place, you think. A slightly rustic aesthetic. There’s a pair of skis decommissioned over the mantle. Mina, as usual, has good taste. You peek around: the foyer, the open living space, the wood finishes, the sunken fireplace. You almost make out a bathroom, through a half-opened doorway - and the kitchen, maybe, is nestled around the far corner.

You settle in, find your bearings, and start taking these leisurely steps down the hall.

That’s when you see her. Wearing a sweater that's a size too big, draped over her frame - sleeves tucked, exposing the barest hint of skin on her wrists, her delicate fingertips. You blink once, twice. That’s a dangerous flare. The rest of her, this canvas of pale skin and soft, endless legs, the hollowed stretch of inner thigh-

Actually, you know what, you are going to delete that out of your mind; as far as you're concerned, Tzuyu absolutely does not have her long, satin-like mahogany hair spilling over her shoulder, her bare legs poking out from under that bulky cotton blend, and she definitely, very absolutely has not given you a complete lack of boundaries, so it's more than plausible for her to slide onto a stool near the countertop with her painted-toes peeking out from beneath the folded press of her thigh (the pedicure, really, now?) and look over at you like you aren’t perfectly familiar with that goddamn face. Those eyes, that jaw.

And her collarbone is out too. Ouch.

Tzuyu rests her chin in one of her perfectly manicured hands, and tilts her head: she’s very blatantly checking you out.

The problem is, you’ve recognized her immediately.

Which - god, the bottom-lines, the blurred borders. It’s been years. She's twenty-three, twenty-four now, and as it turns out, she's taller than you remember. She's thinner, taller, actually a bit filled out too-

Right, okay, no. Just. Delete that image from the internal memory.

"Oh," you breathe, because there's not a single thing you're sure you’re supposed to do. It takes a split second too long to put the brakes on everything in your brain and say, "Tzuyu." It takes even more control not to tack an unthinkingly fond 'miss' to the front of her name - you're a god-honest lost hope - but at the last minute, you settle for, "hi."

It’s unnatural. She's actually somehow prettier than you remember, and the tousled brown curls flowing down her shoulder make it worse. She smiles, gently; this soft-spoken, "hey."

She’s at the kitchen island, holding a bowl of cereal and looking at you like she’s taking inventory. The strap of her bra is black, loose around the curve of her left shoulder; she's barefoot. Any other context, and it's your favorite kind of combination, basically: casual and messy and haphazard. Perfect. She's so tall, christ.

"We've met a few times," and she's not even phrasing it as a question - because she knows for a fact that you know her - and now, well, you can see how that's a problem.

"Yeah." You drop your bags. "Nobody said anything about anyone being here, so, I'm just a little-"

“Relieved?” Tzuyu tries, and if it sounds conceited, you’ve imagined it.

“Surprised,” you amend, quickly. There is a massive amount of distance currently between the both of you - several feet and an island counter to top it off. That's good, you think.

Tzuyu runs her hands over the top of her hair, a half-effort at putting it up into some sort of a ponytail, or maybe a bun. You see now that her nails are bare. "I'd heard from Mina," she starts, "that Sana was coming here-"

And you watch, absentmindedly, as Tzuyu slides down off her chair. You watch her too carefully almost, for a beat. You want to follow the length of her legs with the same ease and shamelessness - like it's instinct or just expected; it's ridiculous and wrong to think, but-

"-with, uh, someone. She left it purposefully vague." Tzuyu finishes, then pauses. Her gaze slides across you. If the awkward stretch of silence is weird, she doesn't comment on it. “Then I heard the flight got delayed because of all the snow."

"Just Sana’s," you correct, and that's not information you should be simply giving away. She just stands there, blinking up at you.

"Huh," she says, eyebrow lifted - slower than is explicitly necessary, “so you’re like. All alone until she gets here.” She simply eats a spoonful of cereal, chews for a moment, and adds, “bummer.”

It’s true, in some sense. You sigh, rake a hand back through your hair, and your jacket falls further down on one of your shoulders; she drops her gaze down, almost imperceptibly, following the motion.

There is definitely a point where you could take notice of a lot of things, and they include, but are certainly not limited to: the fucking languor with which she is licking the yogurt off the back of her spoon, her stupidly long eyelashes fanning on the tops of her cheeks when she glances down, the frankly risque neckline of her sweater. Those kinds of things. Those kinds of details. Really, you wouldn’t dare.

"It sounds like she’ll be getting in tomorrow evening," you decide to inform her, though she didn't ask, and now she nods, focusing still on the yogurt and granola at the bottom of her bowl.

You walk into the kitchen. Rap your knuckles on the countertop. Tzuyu’s right there, and your mind is filling up with images you could really do without. That's the unfortunate, traitorous nature of all this: in any universe, Chou Tzuyu fawns over you. And she will, on accident or purpose, test you. And as for your hesitation - that's an instinct that gets activated every time you so much as meet Tzuyu in person, this invasive little impulse.

"Well," Tzuyu says, way too casually. “It’s just us then.”

"Yeah." you agree, stilted. “Just us.”

"There's wine," she decides, tilts her head. Then, matter of factly, "and coffee, hot cocoa. Mina’s more or less stocked on everything."

Her voice hits the room all nice, sweet, syrupy - god, fuck, maybe there's a window or a door here somewhere that you're supposed to open to clear the air, but when you look, there’s frost on the glass; it’s the subalpine frigidity. Tzuyu flashes you this other sort of glance - her teeth scrape the rounded spoon's tip before her lips fully fix around it. The drowsy, delirious feeling is almost involuntary at this point.

"I should unpack my things, is what I should do, probably," and now you are saying things for the sake of saying them, as an escape. "Hey, seriously. Sorry for the inconvenience."

“Don’t be,” she tells you. "The weather isn't anybody's fault."

(Here, a premonition. You look at Tzuyu, who raises an eyebrow back.)

The next logical move is: leave. Tzuyu folds her long limbs back up onto the stool, and you're - trying not to look. You're also trying not to do it consciously, actively - you're not, and not. You fail, like you did a few years ago, too - the eyes have a bad habit of wandering. She's made of porcelain, all thin wrists, thin neck, soft curves and delicate lines. She's made out of glass - she’s at her most dangerous when you’ve gone and broken her.

It’s possible, you think, she could break you too.

Look, contextually - it’s Murphy’s law, or maybe your own very specific curse. A lot of stuff happens, so here’s a rough draft, your best effort at an approximation, a smudged-pencil sketch:

Tzuyu has been on vacation in the Alps from the start of the week, or maybe the week prior - she's alone in this stupidly big cabin you're supposed to be meeting Sana in for two weeks and change of pure unadulterated, hedonistic fun. Skiing, lounging, stargazing, drinking, screwing, consummating a situationship. You know the drill.

However there ends up being an actual, literal avalanche - with snow and rocks and ice and whatever the fuck - the power goes out, and you can only assume the whole mountain's gone dark. It's like a classic, a cautionary tale: hey, dude, you're on vacation with this drop-dead gorgeous girl who will let you do whatever you want to her - in the name of love and lust and a loosely legal liability. She says she'll be yours forever, except you also heard her say that the universe is entitled to laugh at you, a bit - so you do something you'll regret (which, okay, you've done countless things you'll regret) and now you're getting punished for it, and so is the stunning temptress currently shivering in the bed next to you. Seriously, whatever you do, do not fuck her, don't let her get too attached, because oh, man - Tzuyu really likes to make herself comfortable, huh? To nestle herself into your arms, let her hand stroke circles in the dark fabric of your t-shirt, warm her cold nose into your chest, and cuddle the night away. She's so easy to give in to, isn't she? This walking, talking paradox of everything she's not supposed to be and everything she'll willingly do anyway - there's her expression, placid and rapturous in equal measures, the sleepy mumbles against your skin that sound like prayers, her damp breaths.

You should know better. You should know that this is the universe, laughing its ass off at you.

And just for the record, there is sound reason for everyone to feel, in some sense, extremely concerned by the narrative that your life has slowly, unceremoniously devolved itself into.

The first time you meet Chou Tzuyu is years ago. She’s dramatically, devastatingly, problematically, young.

It was all happening before you could really clock it, and it was morally reprehensible, and it was, in fact, probably all your own doing.

And it’s even more obvious in retrospect: how she would react to the way you reach back and ruffle your hair when you laugh, the casual appeal of your smile, the depths of your tone, how you cut it as close as you can get it. A girl will trip all over herself to let you look after her; that’s the basic blueprint, that's the default. See, you're in your twenties, an adult - not having figured out much, but having certainly figured out this - and it's very much not lost on you that the girl should not be flirting with you - but she does, and the very worst of it is: you let her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jihyo had said at the time, and, in fairness, yeah. That more or less sums it up.

So you end up making a point of never getting to know her, to always keep the conversation nonexistent. Or in the worst case scenario, brief - on surface level topics. The weather. Your job. Food. If you like her sunglasses. (They look protective, you’d told her, very practical. Very safe.) It's the essentials, a light, professional rapport - never once crossing the border from casual conversation to candid disclosure.

She's infatuated, of course. You're not mincing words here. It's actually rather unfortunate, how gone she is for you. You could’ve probably stood to dial it back; you, and your charm. Your smiles.

Because Chou Tzuyu was however many years young, very much off-limits - and like a lot of people it seems, totally hooked on your whole deal.

(Theoretically, that's how it all starts. Which is why, pragmatically, you will never, ever lay a finger on her.)

So, the plan to get through this was simple and to the point and as follows:

* Avoid unnecessary physical contact

* Maintain social distance, in fact - something covid-esque sounds great, about six feet

* Do not offer opinions/advice unless specifically asked

* Minimize speaking, just to be safe

* Do not exchange gifts, especially personal ones

* Be wary of the temptation to take a voluntarily-tipsy Tzuyu to bed, because you'll want to - and god knows Tzuyu will make it extremely clear that you could; this is exactly how shit turns south-

* Adjust and reframe

* Reinforce

* Remind yourself

* To just fucking think about literally anything else

It was working fine, so far - really fine, especially if you consider how early into the stay you're sitting there, telling yourself off in the bathroom mirror, get it together, you dumbass. What is wrong with you, don’t you know better by now - before an unapologetic knock on the door snaps you out of it, and the click of the door opening a moment later forces a heavy inhale from your chest: you just need a fucking second, thanks - not a half-decent excuse or a rearrangement, not a careful restructure, just a split second in your own head; that's not even the sort of thing you're prone to needing, because it's you, but with Chou fucking Tzuyu-

A soft breathy laugh, "are you okay in here?"

Tzuyu pokes her head into the room, her hair a wavy curtain that tumbles down past the middle of her back. You have this vague, fleeting impulse to run your fingers through it.

"Well," and there goes all the shit you'd managed not to think about, or contemplate, or dwell upon for that one glorious, naive, misinformed second. "Sort of," you say, offering her a quick glance.

"Really?" Tzuyu says, not catching onto the whole existential crisis thing. "Is there anything else you need? I mean," and then your eyes fall upon her; she's put a sweater on, pants, which all things considered, is a huge victory, a total rout - her baggy sweater drapes on her, practically brushing her thigh where the material stops, the hem. "I guess not, just. Um," her teeth catch her bottom lip for a quick moment, and this time she glances back towards the hall, the granite-finish tiles. "Wanna make s'mores?"

"What," you ask, because honestly, what the actual fuck-

"I went into town to get fresh groceries earlier this week. Everything just kinda landed in my cart," she says, the beginning of an explanation - the backstory, if you will. "And there's a fireplace. Momo always says the calories don't count if it's social eating, so." She makes a small shrug.

"Oh,” you say, like you understand. Your throat feels tight. “She’s totally right.”

She offers you a small nod. Tucks her hair behind her ear. You wonder if she knows how suggestive even the smallest of gestures she makes are; and more so, if she does it knowingly, or simply without thought - if it's a facet of her own effortlessness.

"Um," you say, for no particular reason other than that Tzuyu is fucking distracting. "Okay."

The edges of her mouth tick upwards at that. "We could put something on the tv,” she suggests. “For the vibe."

"Oh yeah, for the ambience."

"For the ambience," she nods.

(And fuck her, seriously. You might be a goner already.)

"A winter weather advisory," Tzuyu reads, squinting slightly at the tv. A minute later: "Just stay home," followed by another pause, and a frown: "hail and ice too. Yeah, no kidding."

She's reading the weather report. You're pretending you have any idea how to work the fireplace while she sets her eyes on the news, hands running over the blankets she has huddled around herself - legs folded, tucked into the edge of her chest. She'd gotten as far as logging into her Netflix account before the suggestion of cuddling was so obviously implied, her hands patting the cushioned space beside her that you were required by moral law to flip through the cable options until you found the least sexy, least rom-com-y option you could find: a newscaster reporting on the ongoing inclement weather, a forecaster saying 'near zero chance of improving, so travel is heavily discouraged, we strongly advise against-'

"Wonder if Sana's even going to make it," Tzuyu breaks the relative silence, and you are acutely aware of how casual she has been referring to Sana, the complete and utter lack of jealousy or any emotion related - or you guess, inspired. She's not even the slightest bit irked. “If the airport opens, maybe," she adds, and, after a beat, "let's hope."

It gets colder. You can barely see three feet past the front door. The forecast only gets worse, the storm intensifies and swells, it snows and snows - and this isn't a cottage somewhere on the lake, you're a couple miles down a single-track, woodsy road, far, far away from society.

If only these walls could talk, honestly. You're like, caught in a moment. With Tzuyu and marshmallows and these tiny, sticky wooden skewers. This is a story you will tell nobody, ever.

"I don’t mean to say I told you so," she says, but it comes out with a mouthful of chocolate and graham cracker, and marshmallow, which sort of takes the bite out of it. "But the movie is a little more entertaining."

You pretend like you weren't staring at her mouth a beat prior. "Right, a cinematic masterpiece."

Tzuyu tugs a marshmallow off the stick, and looks over at you again. Smiles around the impromptu pastry. She's just such a bright, wholesome thing - soft-hearted, selfless, so innocuous and so pleasant. It's absolutely sick. You have a fucking pavlovian response to Tzuyu simply existing.

And you’re pretending like the white, tacky remains on her mouth haven't permanently solidified that look into memory: the melted chocolate, the whipped sugar, the dimple. You could really do without this specific feeling - for however much longer it'll last, should the storm linger.

"You don’t ever have stuff like this, just for a quiet, carefree time?" Tzuyu licks it off her skin, and the question kind of drags your attention elsewhere.

You breathe in, slow.

Maybe she can feel it too, you think. Because Tzuyu drags the pad of her thumb against her bottom lip, and a question she doesn't ask flickers to life in her gaze: if you'll break or not, if there is an absolute limit.

But it’s impossible to read her. Tzuyu takes up this real easy-going disposition, all quiet and stoic, sort of, and maybe that's the dangerous part of her - the stillness. Other moments, she has this uncanny knack for conversation. She's charming in that way, you have always thought, a bright face. She has a keen understanding of things too - maybe sometimes too much; maybe a little bit beyond her years, really, a little too knowledgeable.

"When the gang does," you answer, diplomatically. “Sure, I suppose.”

There's another smile at that, which is how you know that the back and forth, this coolly cool, somewhat-stiff exchange is sort of becoming a game. A bet on who cracks, who turns. She won't tell you it's you, and you'll never in your right mind acknowledge her. It's some version of honesty. A bit like Russian roulette.

"I used to think we were friends, you know," she muses, like it's some great mystery - all very deliberately cryptic. Like it's funny.

"Hey, you were like, a teenager," you're grasping at straws. You’re spinning the bullet round the conversational chamber. “And I have this thing-”

"You have a thing?" Her eyebrow is raised again - sweetly challenging.

"-like, a principle, a standard - if there's nothing there, and let's face it: there's really not something here-"

"Aw," Tzuyu fakes pouting, which is simultaneously very mean and also like, painfully hot, and she makes this pitiful coo, "you really have nothing to say at all, do you."

Which. Fuck, she’s right. The 'thing' here is the no touching, the no messing, the no making anything resembling a move. She's sitting over there with her mouth covered in sugar, batting her goddamn eyelashes. Which you ignore, thank god for impulse control, or the instinct of it, and Tzuyu pushes a graham cracker past her lips to placate her own expression.

And so it goes. She keeps looking at you and looking and looking and you stare, transfixed, back at her. The edges of her jaw, the rise of her nose, the jutting curve of her collarbone; you say something dumb or clever and you're making her laugh, and every time she does, her teeth catch on her bottom lip and you could really do with a distraction right now, but it's impossible not to flirt.

It's just the way the universe has constructed you - this starvation, a twisted desire. There’s cruelty in the design.

(Things take a turn for the worse, of course. You don’t know how, but she gets to you agree that you two should've gotten closer in all that time-

"Well, I’m sure you were just so busy," you'd shrugged, indifferent, and she'd pressed the sleeve of her sweater to her mouth, just to hide how bright the smile was.

-which, honestly, fuck you - given all the context. Because now she's right here in the cabin; she's an arm's length away, and all this time, you've meant to stay the fuck out of reach.)

Tzuyu does the worst thing. She returns from the kitchen, hands full, with two squat tumblers and a bottle of dark brandy. She sets one down next to you and asks if you want some.

You look. You mean, what are you even supposed to do? It's a catch twenty-two, it's a joke - what can a girl be thinking, standing there. Bending the right way, hair framing a face like hers.

Yeah, sure - it’s the voice of someone who's slipping, who’s gonna say the same thing three more times. "Hm, why not."

The ice clinks against the glass. Then, the pour. Toast to good health, a clean conscience, safe passage; you’ll take whatever you can get.

You watch Tzuyu knock back an impressive amount and make an impressive face. There’s maturity there, you cope. Because you want to touch her jaw, thumb over her cheekbone, breathe baby, it's too strong, slow down on her lips, watch her mouth open slightly-

The fire pops.

She leans toward you. “Are you going to keep stealing stories from me, or are you going to supply anything good to the discussion?"

"About me, personally?" you say, purposefully pedantic.

Tzuyu’s smirk is half-present, half-playful. She sets down her tumbler on a coaster - Mina would be appreciative - and hums at you. “What do you think I mean?”

"I was really hoping the inflection would help clarify."

She levels a gaze with you. You fight back for a hot second - this slow-burning heat under the skin, your resolve threatening to buckle, shatter, spill itself everywhere - and in the end, she is the one that looks away, softly laughing, a pfft under her breath. You’re left the opportunity to just - look. See where the glow from the wood-burning fire has cast this gorgeous gold over her face, all her defined curves, her delicate features.

"I don't care, it could be anything," she poses, settling back into the pillows. Smiling. "Please. Entertain me."

Her cheeks are rosy. You realize, quite suddenly, you are not totally sober either. This is exactly how Sana talked you into something however many moons ago, then however many moons later, surgically unattached all the strings. Sana’s good at talking. At convincing. And you don't do shots like her, or apparently like Tzuyu does - but hell, it's that maddening, pretty little dimple of hers - the one that's always there when she does her mischievous smirk - a deeply devastating look, a devil-may-care demeanor, and you're dead-drunk on it, honestly.

"Want me to talk about Sana?" you offer, "seems like an obvious choice."

"I think you’re projecting," Tzuyu teases. “You just miss her, I'm sure.”

"Mhm. Sure."

Tzuyu makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a snort, and draws the blankets more tightly around her. "What," she says, nonplussed, "who doesn't want to hear some gossip about their friends?"

You're fucking up, right? Fucking up the same way you did years ago when you caught the wrong kind of feeling for an entirely, altogether inappropriate woman. But you'll blame the drinks. And the mood. And the ambience, the fucking fire that's almost suffocating, the closeness of her body next to you-

"Hey," you say, and it's such a mistake. You're pointing to a spot on your chin. You're making it worse. "You got a little, uh-"

You watch as she lifts her hand, glides it through the air - brushes her own cheek with her fingertips, smoothing out an imagined blemish.

"Did I get it?"

"Uh, well, sorta-" and she knows you’re lying.

Tzuyu tries again. Comes up short, and when her hair falls in front of her face, she’s looking at you like maybe you’ll help take care of that too. She’s a total fucking coquette - though maybe she hasn’t even done it on purpose, maybe she's just that unaware, innocent. Not the second one, you figure. You're leaning, tilting closer and closer to her - in any other scenario, there'd be the shortest possible time between her touching herself and you, cupping her jaw with one of your hands.

But your mouth feels like it's moving of its own accord. "No, wait, let me help you," you continue, before you know it.

Isn’t it disastrous; all ice and hazard, this is the advisory in effect; a napoleon-goes-to-russia caliber calamity, a colossal write off, a write in. You could have, should have stopped, except you didn't and now you're reaching, gently, until your palm cups the side of her face - until you press, until you hold her steady. Her head tilts. She lets you, blinking up. Her eyes are this hazy, intoxicated coffee-brown, honeyed and burnt and fucking beautiful.

You swipe your thumb along her bottom lip. The gesture is slow, languid, intentional; you think, through some cosmic error, that might just be the end of it.

"There," you say, smiling, naive.

"Yeah," Tzuyu breathes out, and she winds her fist into the fabric of your shirt. "Thanks."

You lean, or she does; you go down, or she pulls you; there's no difference, really.

She is kissing you, this soft little press. A tug in every direction. You hadn’t kissed her, at the very start, but when her fingers thread through your hair, gripping hard, bringing you closer until you groan, parting your lips slightly, and - and her tongue flits past yours - your brain does this wild mental leap that you ought to be questioning later.

But everything starts to sink.

One of your hands lands on her waist, thumb slipping under the hem of her sweater and pressing against bare skin, and her knee nudges between both of your legs - until Tzuyu hums this low, pretty sound in her throat. There is something fervent here, all-consuming, devouring; her mouth moves like it's frantic for air, for oxygen and fuel, and her whole body melts under yours like she's completely falling apart.

Fuck, you think. There is a deep, smouldering heat in the pit of your stomach.

Because she’s perfect. You always knew that, didn’t you. She is firelight and perfume and muted gold; everything else falls into shadow, fades into the background. Her lips are velvet-soft, and they open again and again with these heavy exhales of hot air - so much so that you have to shift the hand you'd set on her waist lower, a little, her hip bone under your palm, a touch ghosting towards the dip and the swell.

Somehow you have this knowledge: at the end of everything, it'll be her name falling helplessly off your tongue.

"You were wrong by the way,” she stops to say.

"About-" You press another kiss into her jaw, and her mouth parts around the same slow sigh. "Wait." You lean back enough to look at her again.

“Whatever you said earlier." Tzuyu’s eyes go half-lidded as she starts petting your hair back into place, thumb stroking your jawline. "I'd have made time."

Oh, christ-

"Because to tell you the truth," her tongue wets her lip, shiny, wet, "I've never really forgotten. Like I just thought, that whole thing was so… fleeting, you know, like the last time, when you let me text you - god, I was crushing so hard."

You breathe, shaking your head.

"Don’t," is what comes out of your mouth after, quick, sharpened.

“Don’t what?” Tzuyu taunts, pushing another inch further. That small grin on her face, her long, nimble fingers combing through your hair.

You are trying to think, and there was an apology, right? You'd had this one in you. The one that began as a guilty soliloquy, a rueful acknowledgement; something that should have been directed toward Tzuyu, told her, at one point, or another: look. Sorry it's like this.

But there is a hand tracing the collar of your shirt - a sensation that follows all the way to the base of your throat; you lean further into her touch, almost involuntarily - a simple motion, and yet. "You shouldn't. You shouldn't say things like that to me," and you mean: these things you already know. "It's not good."

"Doesn't feel that bad," she tells you, a breezy sort of whisper, warm. "I think I'm getting the opposite impression."

"Maybe for the wrong reasons," you remind her. And to remind yourself, actually. "Probably for the wrong reasons - trust me, it is.”

"Trust you," and it’s the slightest bit ridiculing, a tease - Tzuyu drops her smile, pulls you in by the hair, whispers low. "Sure," the syllable soft, pressed against your throat, "I trust you not to hurt me," and the 'not' gets hung on for an impossibly long moment, stretched out thin.

She's sinister; she has to be, or some amalgamation of the most potent version of every word she’s ever said. A dream girl, the definition and essence of a temptress, this shameless attraction - an insistent siren begging for your attention; the incepting mind-game; the entity that stalks the halls in the deepest trenches of the night, whispering your worst fears right into your ear. You fall further into Tzuyu, the prettiest of nightmares.

(Oh, it's the dimple that does you in, really: if there's any possible way that Chou Tzuyu has unintentionally ruined your life, she's done it with that innocent little smile.)

"You can kiss me again," Tzuyu says, permissive.

And you do. You kiss her, and kiss her like you’ve no choice - like you've decided, at least in this very moment, if Tzuyu can own a piece of your soul, you can take something too.

(The thing about a cautionary tale: sometimes it is really just a story. Sometimes it happens and the world is left unscathed. There were a lot of warning signs, yes. But this could be a coda, a moralistic adage, a story to turn the page on and laugh and be embarrassed by and say, oh, no, I'd definitely do better; a blip. We’d never do anything like that. It's all history, honestly.)

It's not romantic, and it's less gentle than you’d have expected: Tzuyu bites your lip at one point, and you grab her hip so hard she yelps. The pause in the after is filled with a provocation, a stare, a tilt of your head, and her saying, “hey, easy now.” You cup her face in your hands, and run your thumb over lips. The calm is pretty short-lived. She gets her hands working frantically to tear your shirt off over your head. Then it's a haphazard stumble into the doorframe of the bedroom, with her pulling you in too-hard by the waist, bumping your nose against hers in this rough meeting - until your lips fit together.

“Mm,” Tzuyu’s mouth pushes insistently into yours and your tongue immediately laves at its underside, coaxes it to slide against yours and soon she’s sliding forward on purpose - on her own initiative, pressing the steady line of your cock against the seam of your pants, the pressure sudden.

"Watch it," you murmur, breaking away a little to glare at her, which just makes her smile, like she likes pissing you off or something, likes watching you get mad at her, or whatever - if she says it's true, then it is, probably - she's honest.

Her small hand darts up, gripping the sides of your jaw tightly and moving in, kissing like it's easy; like she knows what the fuck she's doing. Her head tilts and she does it again, except it's a few times in a row, making out in the doorway.

"And if I say no?" She grins, hand at your dick again, just palming through the fabric and getting off on your soundless reactions to it all. "Like, is that really enough? I feel like you'd have to like - tie me up. Something - you know?"

"That sounds like a you problem."

A mischievous smile steals across her lips and you feel yourself doing the same. "Yeah, you're right," she responds, dragging her thumb and forefinger from the zipper of your jeans to the hard line of your cock, pinching gently along the shape. "It is my problem."

She feels pliant, more than willing, but it's a calculated type of softness. Still, you get a hint, a vague message and you figure, the way this girl's smirking in her lips: she likes being held down, held fast and steady, so you pin her wrists above her head - her eyes stay on you, don't drop; you pin her, and her expression becomes that shade more dark, more teasing. Oh, you'll go slowly, you think, until Tzuyu gives. You'll climb a hand further under her sweater, let it skim over her ribs. You'll kiss her again, open-mouthed, and slow, until she can't breathe.

Her head knocks into the wall, she bites and smiles like a promise, and all her muscle flexes under your grip. "Oh, seriously," Tzuyu whispers into your mouth. "Y'know, this is like a fantasy of mine.”

And that's kind of it: she has that look. In the morning, you can see yourself chasing her down into sheets - just pinning her with the weight of your whole body, feeling each tensed curve of her against you. She pulls you closer, into her; she seems the type.

"I’d really rather not hear that, Tzu.”

"And I want to hear you say please, more than anything," Tzuyu laughs at herself, something hard in it, "but I think you want to fuck me so bad, it'll come naturally. Like, the second you have your fingers inside me. And that's what you want, right? Tell me."

"I'm thinking about your legs,” you tell her, running your palm around the curve of her thigh. Fuck, she’s perfect. “Think they'd fit around my waist."

"And hook my ankles? I’d love that." Her eyes crinkle. "Is that it, though?"

"Maybe I'd keep my hand on your throat and fuck you like that, too. That's on the table."

Tzuyu laughs: a real, actual sound, but not at you. "It is. You're smart."

"To be completely transparent," you mutter. "I don't plan on asking you very nicely at all."

The lines in Tzuyu's face go a little blissful, contented, like she's so, so pleased with this, like she approves, and she kisses you again, the length of your bodies pressed together, except where her hips cant up and meet the space between your thighs. You drag a hand roughly along her waist, kneading muscle there, down to the rise of her jeans - which, fuck, you need to help her shimmy out of and find the pull of the sweater, whatever - and she grinds out some noise, something caught between her throat and her teeth, but mostly in the place where your hand's dragged under the material, tugging gently at the wire of a bra, and you'd actually kind of forgotten it was a thing.

It's when you hear her own rasp, when she slips the side of your zipper open with a few quick strokes, shoving her fingers inside to hold the base of your cock, that you finally decide:

She's yours and you'll prove it. You'll make sure she knows: the evidence, the fingerprints, the bruises blooming the size of your thumbs and she'll be the one showing them off with pride. She'll let you do whatever you like, which'll be a lot. She'll appeal to all the worst parts of you; she'll say thank you; she'll whimper while you're pulling her bra off and simply letting it flutter to the ground; she'll be crying within the first half an hour of you touching her. You can read it right off her gorgeous face. She'll be so damn breathtakingly-pretty, bouncing on your cock, folded under your weight - it'll be incredible. She'll be yours.

"Come on," Tzuyu breathes. "Yes. Please," she adds, as though it's an afterthought, her free hand tangling in your hair, pulling. "Hurry, or something - I fucking love this but we need to- I’m literally going to, like, die if you don’t touch me right now."

"Yeah," is what you get out. Her jeans finally fall to her ankles and she kicks, to get them to puddle onto the floor. "Yeah. Alright, maybe."

You won't even need to hear her begging, you already know how she sounds: a little annoyed and very turned on, rolling her eyes at herself. This part - she's playing at resistance, but she's giving in. A kiss back, hotter than you were expecting, as you slip a hand up the back of her bare thigh and the edge of her underwear, a thin strip, like it's done on purpose.

When you tuck a finger inside the waistband, feeling a little guilty about the way her whole body reacts - the flex, the pull, the weight of all her muscle straining against how her legs fall open - Tzuyu manages, her face in the hollow of your cheek: "you've waited long enough, right?"

God, she knows where the wounds are still fresh. Which bruises will hurt most when she puts a finger right into one - a reminder you couldn't possibly ignore. She's playing this whole thing a little bit sadistically; she wants this to be your fault, you can tell.

And your mind isn't unbending. You push a finger into her cunt and the girl absolutely shakes apart, body jerking like you've severed a lifeline. She's so wet, and so pretty, so sensitive. Maybe you really have.

"Tzu," you tell her. The hand in your hair tightens, a warning, as you let two, then three, fingers shove inside her. She's breathless; the slow, rough motions, her entire body riding the heel of your palm. "Do you want me to tell you how good you are for me, right now? Is that it?"

"Yeah - do. Please, fuck - please say it."

"I was right," is what you manage, biting your tongue.

"Right?" She asks, her fingers locked, urging your thrusting to turn punishing. "Please."

"Do you want me to make this a nice, pretty little memory? Suck the bitterness out and - have something sweet to go back to, the next time someone hurts you."

"I can take it." She snaps, not even responding to your comment. "Tell me you need me and you're leaving me no choice."

You smile into her hair, because she's a dream. Your thumb pushes into her clit and you can feel her seize up with a pathetic whine.

"Pretty," you mutter, as she slumps her chest to yours. You kiss it right into her hair. “I need you, Tzu.”

And the idea's seductive: keep her pinned and fuck her right into the wall. See her wrecked by the end; the swell of her thumb bloody from how she was biting into it, how she's wrenching at your wrist. Your lips land over her collarbone - no, hers do, to the side of your head - she'd be bent in half if it wasn't for the wood at her back. Her leg crossed in the small of your back. A proper, all-consuming kind of wrecking, with your name on it.

"Yes." Tzuyu nods into your temple, “just- that.”

You're kissing the crook of her neck; your fingertips sliding right against the end of her, your fingers pressing into her and stretching the girl to her limits, making her tremble in her own skin, making her insides melt for the next round, and the next round, and the next; the best, and worst, and longest-lasting kind of high. Your fingertips push together, flutter apart, and Tzuyu's eyes open all of a sudden, locking onto yours.

"Please," she gasps, this one thing. She has tears in her eyes: her face falls into your hands like water, a long drip, and she's all but unraveling.

"I'm going to make you cum, okay?" you tell her, and it sounds so sincere that she simply nods. She trusts you. Implicitly. You see how something in her relaxes, muscles unwinding as though for one last moment. Then you lean down, to her ear, to murmur: "say you're mine."

Her teeth are gritting. You can feel every last point.

"Just yours," she mutters, and it's barely even audible, but she'll say it: over and over, as her orgasm builds, before her mouth goes slack. "Always been. From the very beginning, please-"

“Fuck,” you bite down, and she looks like she’s won.

“So long, y’know?” she manages, in her halting voice, as if you haven't got two fingers up her sweet, perfect cunt, which is, currently, gripping the shit out of your hand, the hungry slutty muscle spasms, a slippery fist; it's not too hard getting Tzuyu to talk dirty and vulgar like a total degenerate - all it takes is the circle of your thumb and she’s perfect and pliant and absolutely out of her mind. “Since like, forever-”

You need her to stop. Need her to be quiet. Your palm lands over the shape of her mouth. She's murmuring something else, but it's muffled - and that's perfect, really. You’re not going to hell; all the devils are already here, getting off on the impropriety-

On the fucking drag of your fingertips. If it isn’t mean, it’s definitely cynical. Each curl of a knuckle unwinding her, a little more, a little further. The gush of her slick that’s collected on the webbing between your fingers is getting unruly, and you’re pressing her mouth flat against your hand, muffling the sheer appreciation.

“Shh,” you tell her, and she seems to calm - insofar you find a spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back and her chest shudder. “Don’t. Hold still for me, I want to watch you cum, Tzu.”

The only thing you can hear beyond the stilted breathing against your hand is her wet cunt getting stretched and fucked on your fingers. It’s so simple. So straightforward. The front of her orgasm makes her jolt against your hips and you pin her again, just to see those gorgeous eyes opening and shutting in sync.

It's this beautiful thing, watching her cum; her flushed cheeks, her pupils blown.

"Good girl," is the only thing you manage in response. "Such a good - such a good little-"

She moans into your hand and finally the muscles of her core tighten, tipping over the precipice as she tips back from the edge. "Ah, you - oh, it feels so-”

You tell her not to talk, and thumb her sensitive clit until the girl's screaming.

Her cries cut through the hallway: the friction, your movements - she's grinding desperate to ride her own orgasm. The absolute highs wracking her silent. She doesn't seem capable of getting off her tiptoes, or opening her eyes properly. Her mouth's still gaping beneath your palm with a whimper, her lungs heaving, and her cunt practically burning-hot - or, she just is, she's overheating, and everything else is burning around her.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty little cunt, Tzu," you tell her as her hips jump and her eyes open. You drop her leg, which buckles instantly. "You're going to be good for me, won’t you?"

"Yes, sir," Tzuyu promises you - it makes you wince - like she'd say anything else, with her hips pushing into your hand like she can't remember how not to.

Even with her brain turning to mush, Tzuyu finds it within her to tease, to pull, to coax - as her slick slides down the seam between your fingers, like she's gushing, a wet ribbon coating the backs of your knuckles. There's a fantasy in it, you think - and it's always the unapologetic type, like, they never admit it: they want the dirt, the debasing. There's always a blueprint to it; they want to hear how terrible it is and then have some fun playing into it, playing a part.

Only Tzuyu’s lip is wobbling; she’s looking at you like you’re going to fuck her apart and she’ll thank you for it. There's no play. Tzuyu wants your cum and she's so open-legged about it you can't pretend it's not exactly that simple.

She’s going to fall apart if you don’t shove your cock in her tight cunt. You need to pin her there - fuck her until she’s shaking. You can already see the face she’ll make when you shock yourself inside her-

"What is it, baby?" you ask her, and a beat later, you draw your zipper down with a steady hand, the other working in her mouth, pressing down the tip of her tongue - not exactly holding, not exactly pulling out of her.

Tzuyu sighs, heavy on her eyelids and slow. Very pretty.

"I want-" Her head is lolling. She's in a daze, now, you can tell: her mouth wet and trembling, her legs kicking weakly, a full-bodied tremor overcoming her. Everything wraps around you as your cock slides inside her: the pale-soft underside of her legs, her slender arms. All those lovely, endless tensed lines, her strong abs. She can hold you like this, with only her abdomen tightening, the rest of her almost liquid. Her head knocks into yours. "Fu-fuck my cunt, fill it, please.”

You use the angle, the approach. Her pussy's practically spasming on the thick tip, milking the hardness there - but the deeper, more confident strokes, you feel it in every one of her shaky breaths. The only thing you can see is Tzuyu's dumb little doe eyes, the one-to-two second interval, fluttering in between slow, heavy blinks. The walls of her pussy are all at once so gentle and smooth, her cunt a plush, warm vice on your cock; she's clinging, and hot, and you're so buried inside you could probably pick her apart with a few words alone:

"Please," she's muttering to herself, and every single cry gets stuck in her mouth and vibrates between the both of you.

Your fingertips hook into the curve of her waist, until your nails are sinking into the flesh, pinching gently, and watching her expression twist, you grip her hips with all the bruising-strength in your hands, yank her back onto your cock. Her spine goes rigid as a line of curses fall like rain from her mouth. A shuddering gasp - you have to steady her against you, where her knees lock tight around your waist as though she's worried you're leaving, like she's scared you won't stay-

"Baby," you grit out, like you'd beg too, "Oh- fuck, my baby, you're - you're all mine, okay."

You bury yourself balls-deep - and there's no pretense, it's just you and her, the pace making Tzuyu's little repeating "ah" go choppy with your thrusting, her eyes clamping shut, her limbs locking around you.

"Too deep," she groans. "Jesus, it's-"

"Uh uh," you mutter against the bend of her chin, and press in, still, maybe just to spite her. "Fight me. If it's too deep."

There’s tears in her lashes, she’s sobbing; you’re fucking her so properly you think she wants to kill you. It might even be written into that glossy expression: death, your demise. But her pretty eyes glint with mischief and her lips split into a grin.

"Try me," and this laugh, coming up from your chest - low, amused. "Go ahead. Put my neck in your hand, if you want-"

There's only ever a couple of moves. Like in chess, the combinations repeat, patterns emerge. Tzuyu pulls into your kiss; her wrist pinned to the wall behind her with one of your hands, the other knocking her thighs apart. Her ankles hook into your hips, just as you knew they would. There are so few options for a person; the only solution's the natural one - the urge to match each other's needs; to lose yourself in the easy push and the easy pull.

It doesn't take long before she opens up beneath you: until there's nothing between the hard pound of your hips and her tender, creaming cunt. Then there's that final gasp, this violent pulse as she takes her hands back from you to cup around your ears and press her lips to the line of your cheekbones and nose and mouth, with her tear-slick skin and saliva and, god - she's a whimperer, you now know, but Tzuyu holds her body still enough to not sway. The picture-perfect example of a good little girl -

That's how you push your mouth to hers: the steady-languid thrust of your cock between the hot clamp of her legs. "Oh, god, you’re gonna make me cum again, christ," her cries go, all muffled, right into your lips. She’s a little lost. Fucked-out. Blissful.

It's not right, though; just pinning the girl against a wall - no, she deserves better. You don't let her fall as you drag her into the bedroom. Not until a tumble into the sheets. She doesn’t try to control the fall, you land on top of her, and Tzuyu laughs a little, but it dies into the hard breaths you can feel bouncing back against your mouth. Her soft thighs pressed beneath your weight, quivering still.

"Fuck your cum into me," She huffs out, softly, more air than noise. You’re practically crushing her. And then the tilt of her head, almost inviting, like a question. "Please. I want it."

In hindsight, the real memory of this moment will be a soft and lovely thing - fabricated mostly: her tiny frame shaking, trembling in its effort to take you in, her voice giving out around a cry as she cums again - there's something sacred there, surely, a holiness that isn't altogether safe, considering what this girl is.

You’ll try not to remember how you fucked her and buried your face between her tits, though she did look up at you through her tears and made it sound sweet, said your name just so, or even the fact that she watched her whole body get filled and only smiled with contentment. That part won’t survive - nor the fact you’ll hold the girl down later and cum inside her three times. Until she’s leaking. Details to be confined to Mina’s cabin-secrecy - or at least, to whatever depth of oblivion, past your will to suppress it, her mind reaches when you bury your hand in her hair and pull her head back to really make sure you've hit every corner of her and left your cum there, marking her insides, turning her warm.

And look, Tzuyu doesn't balk. Instead she lets you pull her in close, her nails raking into the nape of your neck, the muscles under your skin. She drags scratches down your back as you sink into her cunt, hot, willing - she’s so fucking wet you’re bottoming out in each sloppy thrust.

"Tzu," you can't stop yourself from muttering, almost reverent. You were right, on all accounts. The girl is a problem.

One that is currently collapsing under you. You push her knees up to her elbows, and all her weight melts under your hands, limp and helpless.

"Fuck, your pussy is unbelievable.” You shouldn’t be fucking her this hard, but, well, you are - “Tzuyu, baby,” and when your hand comes up to her jaw, she palms it. Takes your thumb into her mouth and sucks. Fuck, it’s all slipping, consuming, you need to cum in her, need to bury your cock deep in her cunt and cum right into that wet sopping mess. Fill her up where she’s molten hot and her walls are gripping you so hard they’re practically begging-

"Yeah," she repeats around the digit, flitting her tongue against your fingertip. “Yeah. Cum for me.”

That's how she likes it. She'll scream, if you let her. If you give her the deepest fill. She’ll apologize and she won’t know for what. You already know how her expression will shift as soon as it hits. Head falling back. Her hands fisting in your hair, the bedding - her knees nearly get drawn up, and you push them apart by your fingertips. She whimpers, and whimpers, and you can't stop from fucking the pretty noises right out of her lungs until she's dripping - soaking you, all over the sheets. You want her to feel it when you leave. Your presence. It’s only fair - she should remember some part of you, in exchange for what she’s traded and stolen away - ideally forever.

You thumb at the tear tracks and lift her by a fistful of that pretty dark hair. And for her, you can be kind, you let your lips graze hers. As tenderly as you can manage, which isn't much, but then the angle settles lower, your cock hits deeper, all the right spots - and god, Tzuyu is so easy to fuck. She slips a little, and you’re catching her, pushing deeper, harder - she’s easy to pound too, to hold down and smother and grind deep, to have under you, all boneless, insensible-

"So pretty for me, Tzu," you growl into the shell of her ear, because you can, and another stroke, another velvety drag has you cumming in her hot, little cunt.

Each throb brings more, pumping her full of your cum, and she likes it. Keeps muttering baby, baby please in your ear, and fuck, you almost slip a hand down and make her fall apart too - but - her fingers wrap around your wrist before they get there, so tight.

"Can feel it. So deep," she whispers, when your eyelids screw shut and the mess floods out of her - gets fucked right back in: your hot cum and her thick slick, the creamy mess leaking from her cunt. You pull your cock out halfway, and she does sob - that sounds just like you'd imagine, too. "Please. Oh, my god- sir. That's it. That's it, let it out, sir. Sir, all your cum feels so good in me - please. Please- just give it to me, sir, yes-"

She’s not even taunting or mocking on that ‘sir,’ you think, not the way she sounds now, the halfway-slur. It's all torn up and tired. It makes you press closer, making the head of your cock swell between the thin walls of her pussy. It hurts - the squeeze. And then the soft, pleading sound she makes.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," you groan, a last attempt at a condescending tone. But she's so raw, so broken down by now that nothing is quite right.

"Fuck," she mutters against your mouth, "fuck, thank you," and your palm drags down the length of her sternum, following the angle of her jaw, slipping your palm onto her tits, thumbing at the indent. It's soft, pliant skin, and you pinch: not anywhere sharp or cruel, not especially sensitive, just in a line below the ridge of her rib cage, and it's too pretty a picture not to smile at her, when her entire chest jolts at the contact, the intake of breath. "Sir. Fuck."

"I'm still fucking you later," you assure her, as if her breathing could've convinced you otherwise. "But I wanna hear your voice some more. Hum a little. Give me a yes, sweetheart. Can you do that?"

The noise is barely audible, almost nonexistent, except it is: she hums her assent as you dip two fingertips back into her swollen, well-fucked cunt, scooping out some of the mess. Your fingers hook into her cheek and her mouth opens, because she's so obedient, because that's why it has to be like this.

You rub her bottom lip. Her eyes open into yours; a wet mouth. It's impossible not to see what's right there. It's easy, really, to press through and in, and give her that taste, that warm, velvety brush, like she's been sucking your cock, and maybe - oh, yeah, you'll remind her about it tomorrow, how she's a needy little slut for it, can't get enough - how you could've fucked her face until she was drooling and out-of-her mind - but the way her eyelashes flutter against your touch; the look-

You’ll take your time. You know what she wants: more than anything. It's the thing you can read. Maybe the hot, sticky mess, the flush in her cheeks. A touch to her face. Your thumb in her mouth, too, stretching, prying, holding. More cum falling beneath her tongue, dripping in those gaping, half-open red lips.

She’s licking your load from your knuckles, your Tzuyu. You can’t believe it.

"Swallow," you tell her.

"Mmm," and it’s there: this gorgeous expression on her features, her eyelids dropping, the shimmer, the shine. You'd do anything to keep it there.

You let your thumb leave the corner of her mouth and it stays open, just the tip of her tongue darting out to taste what little she can. The rest of her lulls back with a satisfied murmur, eyes half-closed, clearly the type of content-afterglow of wanting the man who'd just ruined her. A gratitude, or a simple, silly thing, if he would just pick her up in his arms: "thank you, sir."

Her panties end up back around her hips, and a new shirt's thrown haphazardly on, a soft, gray cotton which rides down, slipping past one pale shoulder. And then she turns over, to the side, her back curling into the heat of your chest. There's no attempt at leaving or any plans either. The arm you've loosely wrapped around her waist simply tugs. It's not subtle or even nice: your hand rucks up the fabric and snaps the waistband, and the soft cotton doesn't stop it from being painful.

"Fuck me again." Tzuyu shakes off with a shrug. She's wiggling her ass, practically. She's not wrong, you suppose - your cock hardens easily, more of a reaction. "Are you just going to - keep teasing?"

“Such a brat,” you say, and that makes her whole body tense; she makes the most beautiful sounds for you, but words, praise, humiliation - those always hit harder. You know your girl.

"Your brat," says Tzuyu, easily. "You can do whatever you want."

Your grip on her hip is brutal. Of course you know. That doesn't mean you can't look for loopholes, anyway, right? You don't move, but the threat's there.

The look she shoots over her shoulder is smug. "I like it rough, or something. Doesn't it make you mad that someone could've had me before?"

"Should I be?" You're swiping your cockhead through her folds before you have a chance to say, "Should I care that some guy's had my little cocksleeve before? Should I be angry that someone used my pretty toy before I got to?" You thumb at the tightness, and Tzuyu gives up the front immediately and jerks her hips backward. "If I wasn't the first?"

"Not exactly," comes Tzuyu's mild answer, "not if I was always thinking of you. Plus, they didn't make me feel like that." She tips her head up, to nip at your jaw. She's smiling so fucking coy when she adds: "please, don't hurt me too bad."

You wrap your hands around her. Press a kiss into her shoulder.

“Or do, maybe. Whatever feels natural, you know," she bites down.

"The hickeys are going to be difficult," you agree. "People are gonna see them and they'll picture themselves, probably, with you spread out, huffing, gasping - fucking you out of a brain."

"As they should," she says, and then hums this low, heartfelt note into the mattress. "So how hard can you do this, hm?" She's moaning into the pillow as you slip back into her cunt, but it's a challenge, the tilt in her voice. "Like, if I ask, real nicely."

Who’d have ever guessed she was so filthy. All hidden behind the pristine, the perfection. The prim girls are always the worst: all that beauty means more to them wrecked than revered - it means they've won, again.

Well, that works just fine. She's won you over.

You lean into her shoulder, murmuring, “you’re pushing your luck here, Tzu.”

“Am I?” Her head tilts back until it finds the curve of your jaw. Those deep brown eyes flashing. She knows what’s coming, her pussy tightening prettily. "I'm sorry, sir. I’ll clean up my act."

And the little smile. The fucking dimple, proudly stitched into her cheek - right as you pull her back onto you again, your length working its way slowly into her cunt. The way her ass fits in your hips lets you know you're no match for this girl: how unbelievably good it feels to be inside her. Hot, tight, wanting. Pressed tight between her gorgeous thighs.

“Guess I never noticed,” she says, before falling quiet with the soft punch of breath as you drag her backwards, against your body and the rocking press of your hips. Her eyelashes tremble while your cock nudges its way fully inside her pussy. The rest, as it seems, is silent: only the crash of skin, the sound of your breathing.

You’re already gathering her hair into your fist when you tug her back to your waist, mouth hovering right at the shell of her ear: "fuck, you take my dick like you're made for it. Do you even know how good your pussy feels? I'll ruin you if you let me. We can find out together," you tell her, pulling her back onto your cock. A wordless, pained, perfect whimper.

Tzuyu lets herself go slack against your chest.

She's taking you like a dream and that's it, that's enough, all you've got to say, and Tzuyu, jesus-fucking-christ, she does it with a laugh: this awful, melodic, bright, sweet, airy fucking thing: "don't fucking test me, Tzuyu -" you repeat, a warning.

Tzuyu bats those long lashes, like it'll mean anything, like this isn't all the proof you need.

"Okay. Don't tease, then.” Her hand reaches up to the nape of your neck, finds your body close and hot. She sighs. “I want to feel it, sir. So much that I can't walk after. That I'll still have you in me. I want it all to hurt. Is that too much?"

All she does is try to hide her smiles, and she's terrible at it. There's a gasp buried underneath her giggling, one that Tzuyu loses every time she moves her body with yours. There are only two conclusions now: either she's that perfect of a fuck or she's as full of shit as you are. Either way, the dimple's giving her away - her smile, her lips, the full, syrupy brown of her gaze.

Tzuyu wraps that leg up and back around you and the angle is devastating.

"Baby, I want you- I want your cock deeper - yes, baby. Deeper - as deep as it'll go. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until there's nothing I can do. Seriously. Fuck me."

Her hand dives over the shirt; there's no question when your gaze follows the trail she takes over her tensing body, over the curve of her breasts and down to where she's dragging at her pussy, where she's exposed herself. She finds the space and lets the fingertips flutter down, onto her needy, swollen clit; the place where your bodies join and separate; the throbbing pulse of her pussy.

"And then fuck me some more,” she adds, like that'll help. Her pussy fits you like a glove - it’s not fair. It’s not right.

But she's so beautiful up close, eyes fluttering in pure, concentrated rapture as she loses the tension in her face - one more thing that the facets, angles, and shades of Tzuyu become, something you tuck away in a vault somewhere safe; a secret just between the two of you.

Her hand runs up your thigh, fastens back on your hip. “You owe it to me, to use my body a little bit, don’t you think?”

There's no sense fighting it, not anymore - maybe there never was - and when you grip Tzuyu's upper thigh, tilt her leg upwards, she gives you an anticipatory hum. This light sound. An ankle lands over your hip, and what follows is a tight, enveloping slide, your cock buried in her wet pussy. So close together that she can't move much at all except to take it - the hard thrust, the one that forces its way up to the hilt. She's impossibly, overwhelmingly soft, a pleasure unlike any other. The absolute worst kind.

She knows exactly the danger of getting involved with you, and when she cums, once, again, and once more - her eyes water, her voice flooded - you think, so do you.

It’s in the hours of the morning that’re not quite today, nor quite tomorrow when Tzuyu leans on the end of the bed as she stretches. A loose t-shirt is draped over her petite body - you glance over at her as the bottom of the fabric lifts, exposing more skin across her legs. No matter the circumstances, the space she inhabits will always feel charged. She could wear a potato sack and have the same effect, you suppose, because that's just how she is: Tzuyu is magnetizing.

"That is definitely not yours," you say, finally.

The girl has a lovely arch to her back, a golden glow of perfection that you can't find elsewhere. That's when Tzuyu laughs and spins around. "Is that a question?"

You only have yourself to blame. Of course it's not hers. The shirt's oversized and could fit all five feet, eight inches of her like a tent. It doesn't belong to her, but her heart-shaped lips make you feel stupid, so you're giving her a second chance. You really need that shirt back. You packed light, it's your favorite tee, it’s a family heirloom, or something - whatever makes her get it off, you guess. You sit up against the bed, and watch her fingers hook into the hem as it slowly peels off from her frame.

And that is - a vision.

You already knew - but it's worth repeating, or forgetting your name and every last bit of your existence for; the sharp collarbone, the striking red lines beneath them, the palest, sweetest chest. Her breasts, a bit smaller, a bit rounder than normal (not that you would know), sit heavy in her hands, soft and full - oh, the hickeys, the perfect peaks and the bruised nipples - she's an aphrodisiac.

"I want one later," she tells you, and runs a hand over her breast, pressing against the angry red marks that color the pale skin.

"A shirt?"

She turns back toward the mirror, an image reflected tenfold - a beautiful flush on her high cheekbones. It's only a small win to think that those rosy cheeks are there because of you. Only a little one, if at all. "One of yours, sure."

You laugh, but she looks taken aback. "What, you mean like a keepsake?"

"Hey, if it smells good." Tzuyu brings up the neckline to her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before they snap closed. "Yes. Like a keepsake, is that so unnatural?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you are, like, really forward." You thought you knew, but there's this part of you that wonders. Why the sudden revelation. "Not that it isn't obvious. I meant...with the rest. Just to clarify."

"With sex, you mean?" Her smile turns a little sheepish. "I can tone it down a little. I don't even notice sometimes, I just talk."

You walk forward and wrap your arms around her waist. You fit easily around her. "Don't," you say, quietly, against the back of her neck. "It's nice, in a way."

She cranes her head to trade the reflection of your eyes for the real thing. Her body is soft, warm. "You like to talk too."

"Right."

"Your favorite past-time."

"Point taken." Your thumb runs down the middle of her breast and traces her nipple. It's tender, you note. You can’t really keep your hands off her waist, or stop touching her tits - because who would ever let something so delightful pass them by? Not you. No way. "Want to hear a story?"

"If it's coming from you," she whispers, a little smile, a lot of entendre, "I’ll listen to anything."

"Do you see the wall over there?" You nod to the window. She follows it with her gaze, her chin jutting towards your shoulder, her long neck arching. It's hard not to kiss it. There's a clear stretch of drywall beside her desk. She nods. "When I came here with Sana and Mina last," and your nose presses into her hair, inhaling her, the way she smells like something tropical: vanilla and citrus. Something far from here. "I put up a few paintings. I'm handy sometimes, a hammer seeking a nail sorta thing."

Tzuyu almost snorts, and sways a bit in your grasp. You tighten your hold, not wanting to drop her. "Oh?” she teases out, suggestive. “Show me."

(You shouldn’t. You can’t stop, frankly. Fucking Tzuyu is in its own category: the luxury, the treasure, the extravagance; feeling between your fingers the finest silk, the richest cashmere.

Her palms slide higher up the wall, fingers splayed. The curve of her back, the pull of her hair. Tzuyu kissing you like the world will end and the moon will be the first to know, her fists curling into your back, a furious, frantic urgency - Tzuyu fucking you. Well. Tzuyu always, always kissing you; it's the universe resetting, it's a timeline rewritten, it's trading everything sweet for salt, giving you teeth and tongue, the insides of her lip rubbed raw - she tastes like 80 Proof, a sticky, melting liquor, and it goes down too easy. "Why are you making this hard for me." It's not a question, her face in your neck - then she says, like there's a hundred other things, a hundred thousand ways you can ask:

"What makes you think I want to make this easy?")

The power goes out early in the morning.

Which means you're in the dark. But, it's alright. You consider for a moment the omen-like timing, if such an idea is ludicrous in the first place. This could be a metaphor. After all, what is Tzuyu if not a classic trope? It isn't fair to judge anyone based off their flaws. For starters, you have more than you can count. You consider a moment longer, that the timing isn't metaphor-worthy. After all, if this was a punitive force, you're certain that it would've been more apparent, more explicit, if the electric panel had burst into flames or the cable box was shot-out; something bigger, flashier, less like something that you'd play up for theatrics. And it probably would've been when you had the girl on all on fours, your handprints seared into the round of her ass-

Or, when she got on her knees. The snap of darkness setting in as you slipped your cock out of her lips and spilled a rope of hot cum on her face, in her hair. The way she just relaxed into it, a reverence to her being baptized, kneeling. “Oh, Tzu,” you said, with a fist around a cock, and jerked the rest right out on her tongue. You probably would have heard her sniffle after, still recovering from her choking a bit.

Or, when you had half a mind to kneel down between her legs in the shower, suck her clit until she was dripping, fucking her open with your tongue; you could taste her sweat, her slick, and imagine how hard it must be to put up that front: biting into a washcloth, trying not to fall apart.

(Karma arrives late, or it doesn't arrive at all. Or, something. Who knows. It doesn't matter. The outcome would have remained the same.)

Tzuyu opens the sliding glass door to the balcony.

You watch her from behind - there's a small pile of snow at the edge. The whole mountain has gone into complete darkness. No moon, no lights, no light poles, or blinking bulbs or strobe signs or house lights - just night. How eerily romantic, that. And if there was an excess amount of snow before, it only got heavier, thicker, now weighing on the steel bars of the railing.

Tzuyu rests her hands there, leaning her hips a bit forward, so far that her knees lock. Her back bends. "It's so weird," she breathes out, and you can see your exhales, both of yours. "I feel like you and I are the only ones here right now. Everyone else is probably taking shelter. Maybe the power went out for everybody."

"Maybe."

"It's all a bit spooky. Or creepy. But, exciting too, yeah?" She turns, just enough. Her fingertips run along the side of her face. "In the mountains, yes." She doesn't even need to say the rest, doesn't need to ask: does that appeal to you? All this isolation? I could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear it. I'm yours to fuck, to have, to own, to do anything to-

"It'll probably be fixed in the morning," you tell her. "Who would turn it back on tonight. To this place. They'll start at the closest areas to town and go out from there."

"Mina has a generator," Tzuyu supplies helpfully. "No living clue where."

"Want to look for it?"

She lets her head tilt, as if to follow the expanse of trees leading up into the rocky ground. "Would it kill us to wait for tomorrow?" Her bare toes curl into the floorboards. The blanket stays wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and a single line of her wrist can be seen when she tilts her arm a certain way. "We won't die or anything."

You wouldn't die, not before being smitten with a different death, falling headfirst and in love; and that's what you've felt since the start, since the beginning: you've always wanted more. It was always inevitable, her letting her weight fall backwards, in the living room - all your filthy secrets falling out. It felt like the sky had dropped. All over the bedroom floor.

"Then let's get some sleep," you say, but still step closer, as you do with anyone, to brush aside the strand of hair over her ear.

It feels like the temperature must have dropped dramatically. Not that it bothers either of you very much, you note, when you move under the blankets together. Some might feel embarrassed by the necessity, but then, most aren't half the people that you both are.

Tzuyu presses her fingers under her thigh to keep her legs shut. To avoid the cold, she claims, but you can hear the slippery noises that her cunt makes as her body shakes with each thrust of her fingers. You almost suggest that you heat her up in an entirely different fashion, but the smile, her smile, gets the best of you. Instead, you let yourself touch and trace, and feel her wherever it may land. There's no sense in pretending either, so you tangle yourself into her: a finger between her legs. Another in her palm, resting against her hip. When you press your thumb against her cunt, she begins to smile, too, as if to show you exactly what kind of person she is. That is to say, completely insatiable.

You let your free hand slip under her chin. Tilting her head up, exposing the faint pulse-points. You wonder if she's imagining the things you'd do if the snow never cleared: toying with her hair, petting the top of her head, speaking pretty and dirty and pressing kisses against her bare back, in a rhythm, as you fuck her without care - something close and tight like the little noises she makes and how they die off, finally, when you push your cock deeper, still.

There are no words between you anymore, maybe - but she's not laughing, and you're not angry, and it's only one second before your mouth is on her neck, kissing the column of her throat. It's easy to sleep with her - so, so simple, if not anything else.

"I don't have anything in the morning," you murmur to the top of her shoulder, barely moving as not to break the moment. To tell her it's fine to leave her body or keep it forever. Either way. Both, if it's an option.

She smiles. Her eyes are still closed. "It'd be weird if you did."

She can be a tease - a complete brat - sometimes. Like now. But then again, who would you be if not the person who falls for exactly that.

And that is a weakness: you have a very specific kind of hunger, that won't fade, that can only be sated. She knows it, and yet her coy grin remains. It's a habit, not a mistake. "Yeah, well," you lean up onto your forearm, pressing the knuckles of your right hand against her soft cheek. "This is the most inconvenient of all places, but- don't worry about it."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think they sell birth control or morning after pills or anything up here," you explain, lightly. Your gaze passes from her eyes to the pink of her bottom lip and back, again.

"Do I look like I'd care?" Tzuyu sighs and takes your wrist, pulling your arm over her body. "I know what I'm doing," she adds, which might actually be a lie. "Obviously. You don’t need to pretend you’re like, responsible, or whatever."

Yes, obviously. As if it was all as easy as pulling strings, deciding exactly which points to tease, to stress. You should know. You just kissed and held down and fucked and fucked your cum into this one: you know how to move her strings better than any.

You flip the switch in the kitchen. Up, down, up, down: except, nothing. The electricity is still decidedly off by mid-morning, and you and Tzuyu end up having actual, quality, conversation.

You sit her on the kitchen counter - though it’s not fated to last long, because her legs loop around your waist, and she tugs your sweats down as you try to fix the two of you lunch - Tzuyu gets what Tzuyu wants, of course - so you're standing there fucking her while her head leans back on the cool marble, her silky dark hair tumbling off the end of the counter.

She ends up propped up on one elbow. Eyes hazy and half-lidded, fixed on the glide of you into her creamy folds, spreading her wider, wider.

Tzuyu asks questions - all innocuous, at least to the ear. About your past. Who you were before all this. Whether you want kids, when, whether you were religious, once. She gets personal before you have her cumming and incoherent: how you sleep, in what positions. How often you jerk yourself off. What you're thinking of when you do. How you'd use her - not the lewd version, the spitting, filthy iteration, just the you and her and her being yours part. And she gets specific about that. She'll slide up to you and bury her nose in your throat, wrap her arms around your shoulders, mumble about wanting you closer - you feel her, maybe more than you should - but every few seconds you're sliding home into that pussy and her chest heaves out a deep breath-

"I want what's in here," she finally says, her delicate palm cupping your balls. She's pulling you into her on each stroke like the fucking sun's gone out and this is her last chance - she's magnetism, gravity, a blackhole you'd give up the rest of the universe to. She's got one fist on your shirt, and the other hand on your sack, and her pussy's fluttering around you, and she's watching you watching her, and it's infinity:

"The idea of you." Tzuyu smiles at the way your eyes narrow, the way the word turns itself over and over on your mind, her. She tilts her face to look at your expression. "Like, in here. All your cum. There's so much. Can I please have it-"

You swear.

"Pretty please, baby," Tzuyu's asking if you'll fill her up, if you'll make her your cumdump, keep fucking her even with all your cum inside her, asking what the worst of your fantasies are - you fuck harder, deeper, and she nods eagerly, tightens that fist in your shirt. "Can you give it to me? Please, it's the only thing I need, and we both know I always need something, please."

"Jesus fucking christ," you tell her, helpless, and it's never felt better: her cockwarming on your lap, her teasing and teasing until your self-control's paper thin - won't you? won't you? fucking breed this slutty little cunt? won't you cum until I'm so full it's spilling out-

The snap. Like falling, it’s something you notice right away, but only ever understand a long ways down.

"Yours," moans Tzuyu, half in an accusatory fashion - fuck - she's almost gasping: "fuck - just use me, use your cumdump, 'cause you'll never have a tighter cunt than this."

God. Damn. Her. You cum so hard it aches, and there's no hesitation:

"My cocksleeve, my good girl, shit-"

"You could leave a baby in me, even, just like that. Couldn't you. Isn't that hot. And nobody could do a fucking thing." Tzuyu’s tits are spilling out the sides of her camisole and she looks like pure porn, in person. Your cum is dripping out of her and you watch as it spills on the marble.

"Is that what my girl wants?

She smiles, again, so prettily.

“You wanna be full of cum, is that it?" You grab Tzuyu's hair; pull just enough to get the point across. "Is that it? You're a perfect cumslut who needs all that fucking cum, huh? Wants it pumped deep? You like being full of it, right Tzu? This needy little cunt loves the thought of getting bred? Knocked up? Goddamn, Tzu."

"That's me," agrees Tzuyu, in the afterglow. Dimple dug deep. "Yeah. Your personal cumslut, sir."

She just grins when you reach between her thighs, pressing your fingers into the cum you've fucked into her, before you decide that the wet warmth is yours and you’re going to fuck her even further into delirium.

Her hips come up off the granite, desperately.

"Uh-huh," she mumbles, already drifting - you put her off her balance, for real. "God, yes, please," she's whispers, as if all the ways you'd ruin her were prayers, like she wants to start a new religion all her own: you're a god, and it's all about Tzuyu - just you, and her, asking, again, the questions piling on top of other ones, the sweet drawl, the sinful want, the curiosity-

Fuck. She wants everything about you, your dirty secrets and your nice manners - the stories behind your scars, your funny little quirk of raising just one eyebrow at a time-

You turn her around. She's made for this, intelligently designed: her tiptoes just touching the floor, the delicious curve of her lower back, your cock sliding effortlessly into her and hitting a spot she arches into like it's divine intervention and that pussy making its first church of your name. The cum you'd already left in her cunt is making everything wetter, making those obscene sounds echo in the space around the two of you. It's rapturous; you let her feel it slow, and deep, and it’s bliss.

“Tighter,” you growl into her ear, and her cunt clenches like you own it.

The girl's figure is pristine, an ass that belongs under spotlights, on camera; those thick lips, the curtain of her hair when she tips her chin down. It's all been in magazines, billboards, it's been idolized - she is the icon and you're the follower, but, this weekend, here and now-

"So. Fucking. Good-" she gasping, falling apart. She’s collapsing and it’s not even noon.

"Oh, the world knows." You pull her up, hold her body in yours and snap into her cunt. Her skin's hot, feverish, the light that filters through the blinds and the snow slows outside.

It all happens without a moment’s notice - Tzuyu reaches behind and clutches your thigh, as if she could ever pull you deeper, like it wouldn't tear her in half. But you find yourself in a position to grab the edge of the counter; your phone buzzes. It's Sana, probably asking what's up. You want to ignore it and keep fucking Tzuyu from behind. You want to hold her hips, be mindful of the marks, the bruises, sink your fingers into her hair, her tits - you end up murmuring things like please and fucking perfect and if we were a little more religious then you'd be a sin to remember-

Fuck, you're cumming again. The writing’s on the wall as soon as your cock makes her breath draw short and her eyelids snap shut. She’s exquisite, a masterwork - you’re painting in broad strokes, all over the beautiful curves of her ass - not only because you’ve needed to see it cast in hot streaks of white, all debased with your cum, but simply to prove a point; to say that you can. You cum on her cheeks, her cunt, you pump your fist around your shaft and cum in the crotch of her panties too.

"That's it, Tzu," you croon, "look at that," your spent cock twitching against her plush thighs, her dripping pussy lips, and she's sagged forward, onto the counter, your thumb running through a particularly thick rivulet. Her face dips down, pressed to the cold surface, and the words coming out aren't coherent, are just filthy and true; but they're there: she's taken you and kept you, all for herself.

(Thank you, she says, for making me into your little cockwarmer, your toy, for breaking my fucking cunt, baby - thank you, please, thank you-

You could end your career tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. Just saying, man. This girl, fuck.)

There’s a beat, the strained breathing, the panting, the disbelief. She ends up kissing your chin after sliding back to her feet, a saccharine imitation of chaste. Pulls up her shorts without a second's consideration. Her panties, still sticky with your spend - well. She puts those back, too, grinning dreamily.

Oh, how is a woman like Tzuyu even real, huh? You really do need to find out, somehow.

"Your imagination is…" you say, your tone flat. “I swear.” But you don't deny that the sex isn't. You don't think of her that way. She doesn't ask you for your hopes or your dreams or the full gambit of life, as some people might. She asks about what you think about at three am when she's got one hand on her tits and one on her clit and one finger in her mouth:

"Anything we can think of," she corrects, her long limbs squeezing her tighter to your front. Her grin bright, so perfect she's beyond believable, and how can such a dissonance exist in something, someone, you're holding on to? "I mean, we can if you want."

"Maybe we'll talk about that - how you can handle me," is what Tzuyu rasps, softly, tying her hair up afterwards: and you realize this is her post-coital. For her, sex makes her nice. Sweet.

You've already fixed her lunch; Tzuyu comes to sit down at the table with you. "Like, for future reference." You're raising an eyebrow. She grins at that, kicks her feet. Her hips don't do the same, though - no doubt still a little sore, like her lips. She's worn out, finally. She won't try to slice off and claim any more of your aching soul.

“You have no business thinking about babies.”

“Tell that to my ovaries.”

"You have a breeding kink, is what it is, really. I’m being completely serious."

"Well, am I pregnant yet?" Tzuyu flutters those lashes, puts those big pretty eyes on full display. "No? Then I'm getting off on something else, clearly, isn't it obvious, like maybe there's something about being on the other end of someone so big. Have you considered how wet you make me when you-"

"Tzuyu, cut it out," you chide her. The little brat's giggling. You aren’t going to let her know how pretty the noise is.

"Fine." She reaches across the table, puts her small hand on your larger one. "Like I said - how to handle me." Her tone is placating, the sharp edge to her personality blunted. It's different with Tzuyu - after sex, she gets like this: playful, easy, fond. The mess you've just made, the cunt you've stuffed full, that's another Tzuyu altogether. "For your... benefit."

"My benefit, really?"

"Aside from getting my brains fucked out," she explains, "is what I meant."

"Not making this easier, babe."

Her mouth curves a slow smile. She likes when you call her names, cute shit like that.

"I need to call Sana back," you explain, finally.

Tzuyu nods.

"In a bit," you add. "Also," you're saying, leaning forward. Her head tilts toward yours.

She's receptive, her whole body pliant and lazy, after that, well, marathon - she'll roll with whatever you're suggesting. This has always been a dream to her, she's mentioned. (Who has dreams like that? Someone so young, that innocent - well, yeah.)

But you kiss her temple, lightly. "Gimme a minute."

Tzuyu blinks, in that catlike way she has of staring, intent. Her mouth slightly pouty.

"Then you get your turn," you offer.

"Deal," she nods.

And that makes her beam - your beautiful, very good, very perfect, little toy.

"You're going to have to slow down," you tell Sana over the phone. "I have zero reception up here, sorry."

"The highway is shut down, I literally can't get to the other side of town," she yells over the sound of tires rolling on snow. Sana does not sound in the best spirits. If anything, she sounds slightly desperate. "Part of the mountain collapsed on a cliff somewhere. Fuck's sake. The weather is still terrible and they're shutting everything down. Literally shuttering every road off the base of the mountain."

"You sound good," you deadpan, and when Sana grumbles, say, "try the next exit, head around and take a back road-"

"Yeah, except it's snowing like nobody's fucking business right now - I'm not going to risk exposure to try to get there on my own."

"What should I do?" you try, a bit helpless. "Stay here?"

"Why are you even asking," Sana scoffs, "yes, stay there, stupid. Tell Tzuyu you can't drive in snow, that she can't possibly expect me to deal with any of you leaving a safe situation." There's another brief pause. "Ah, seriously, there is not a single living human being near here that can be helpful - and they're supposed to bring us new tires? Here? No, fuck's sake."

"Oh," is all you say.

"Don't worry about me." Sana's voice goes up a notch. "Just be there, alright? Stay warm, okay?" A crackle, more radio waves or distance.

"Text me," you urge. "Tell me you're getting in safe."

"Of course, of course," and that's when you get the click, the abrupt disconnection. You stare at the device in your hand and consider the possibilities, and the outcomes, and how to stay sane while alone with temptation incarnate for a couple nights.

Maybe this really is hell. Or it's a trial. There’s the storm, and there’s your angel, contextually out of place. You're incapable of controlling yourself, clearly.

You sigh, let your gaze slide. The lights are still out, and in their absence, Tzuyu has dragged every available blanket or bed sheet within her reach into the living space, spread a dozen pillows across the sofa and is now occupying one of the corners: there's a book, opened onto her lap, as her nails run circles down the blanket draped over her lower back.

"Tzu, what exactly did Mina mention to you about the generator," is the first thing you blurt, upon entry, and Tzuyu smiles, holding up the page against the fading daylight - which is currently hardly much. "Better question: how are you able to read in the dark?"

"Takes a lot to shake me off, honestly,” she says, which you already know to be true. “Also my eyes aren't old like yours, so."

"Wow."

"What?" Tzuyu grins, tilts her chin. "Do you want me to say that you're ageless? Thirty, flirty and thriving. So impressive, your youthful vigor, that sort of deal? How attracted I am to your experience," the insinuation, this sudden intimacy. She laughs. "Seriously. Let me read."

"Apparently we're going to be stranded for a few days."

"That's cute." She pauses. "Sucks for Sana."

"You don't know what sucks for Sana."

She peeks over the corner of the page, then, grinning, the teeth of a joke. "What's on the menu, then? Hm? So far, the best part was waking up beside you," and you almost grin, at how honest she manages to be without seeming conceited. How shameless Tzuyu has become in the ways of liking you, and maybe a bit of who she thinks you are. And why that's dangerous, really, and it makes the guilt burrow down beneath your ribs a bit: "my ass hurts," she's complaining now, which is only going to encourage the teasing-

"As it should," you comment, then watch her eyes sharpen, glint with mischief. "Oh," you realize, with a shrug, "do we get to cuddle again."

(Let's hope, for a moment, this isn't really karma. Because really, it'd just be an uncalled-for injustice: Chou Tzuyu delivered down on all fours, head tucked into your thighs as a fist grabs a handful of her hair, a slow push and pull - your cock sinking into the velvet warmth between her lips, again, again, and again until she's ruined and crying and still swallowing you whole - as she, not the universe, forces a massive dose of her own medicine down your throat. You see how that might not be quite fair.)

"But I'll have to leave again," you're protesting - no heat, no vitriol. "There's, like. Stuff I gotta grab."

"Then grab me," she sighs, pats her lap, "read over my shoulder. Make out with me. Just keep me warm. That'd be very helpful, and I would be so grateful."

Well, fuck. You're not one for inflating egos - at least not anybody else's - especially when, unchecked, that tends to do the exact opposite of keeping them grounded.

"Fine," you're muttering, and you clearly have a habit for capitulation wherever Tzuyu is concerned, the quirk in her lips, the quiet pride in her dimple, the cadence in her speech - which she's already smug about.

"Wonderful." She taps the back of her fingernail against a book page, waits, just a few more seconds, her grin spreading as you begin to fumble around. "Please," she says, flicks her gaze back down, a tease, "take all the time you need."

The thing about mountain air is it has a way of clearing your head, cooling down the frenetic thoughts of indecision and uncertainty and moral conflict.

Well, maybe that's a slight overreach, the mountains also have a way of getting you killed, but the intention was to look upon the white caps and ponder. It didn't work.

You eventually find the generator. You hear the clicks of metal and electrical wiring, the roar of the motor kicking on, a steady hum. Then, Tzuyu pokes her head out from behind the shed, her cheeks tinted a warm pink; her eyebrows rise up a beat.

"Yes?" you prompt.

"Is it working?"

"Does it look like it's working, miss?"

"Looks a-okay to me," and she presses the heel of her mitten into her teeth, tries to bite it back down her wrist; she stumbles, a moment, slightly clumsy in the snow. You instinctively reach out. Your hands brush the outer seam of her pajamas, the heavy fabric of her coat - "oh," you can feel the instant the shivers start, "fuck, I'm cold.”

“We’re both probably pretty due for a hot shower,” you say.

"Yeah, you came in my hair. Er, sorry, I meant, we both need a hot shower."

"It was really adorable when you were rutting back on my dick like some horny animal," you snort. "Admit it."

"No comment."

"So shy."

Her smile cracks open, and her breath is a white plume. "Fuck you."

"Sure, babe," you're agreeing, the tone almost saccharine. "If you insist."

She blinks back in mild surprise, the blatant answer - and god, her fucking eyes: soft, dark, her eyelids barely lift up. Even when they should've narrowed. That was another thing to learn. (Maybe, god - who knows, maybe she's still learning how not to care.)

She runs a hand through her hair. The scarf around her neck is fluffing up. There's white clumps settling on the fibers, slowly dissolving into a damp mess.

"Listen," Tzuyu murmurs, wraps an arm around yours to help herself up.

Your palm settles on the round of her thigh. She shifts, her hand dropping lower - tugs at your arm until she has an elbow in hers. The backs of her knuckles settle against your hip bone, her fingertips sliding across the waistband: you walk backwards through your snowprints, gently - the side door to the cabin is unlocked - Tzuyu's stumbling toward it.

"Going to the shower, we're turning the water on," she explains. You grin, feel your own arm, a slow drag around her lower waist; she tilts into it, steps closer. Presses a finger to your chest: "dinner's gonna be in half an hour," she announces, "and before you ask, I've been craving those boxes of instant mac & cheese in Mina's pantry."

"I haven't had one of those in ages."

"Me neither," and with her heel, she kicks the side door shut; Tzuyu yanks on a cord, pulls the blinds closed. It's pitch black. You're chuckling low, turning around - one of Tzuyu's hands smacks over a nearby light switch, illuminating the room just a shade lighter than it was prior. She presses a hand to your chest, a single-minded goal to your front.

You put your hands on her hips.

"It's the kinda thing that makes me feel like a kid again," you hear her say, just slightly; that, and how the white fabric of her sweater twists, pulled to a single point.

"Happens," is the best explanation you can give. She slaps the lightswitch again. Kisses you. You shove a leg forward. She whines. "Be good," you're chiding, though you both stumble until her back is pressed against the wall. "You were just complaining that you're still sore."

"Maybe I can't help it, maybe that's all on you," the end of the sentence fades. Her nails slide up the sleeve of your arm. There's the soft hitch of a moan. "It's just you. So unfair." She rubs up. Swallows like it's instinct, at the slightest hint of friction. You curl your hand, your thumb grazes the waistband of her underwear; her fingertips tighten, her blunt nails sink deeper - press like she means something else, wants something more.

It'll be a few days, at least, more likely a week; and by then, this girl will have you right where she needs you. She's proven, time after time - you can never just say no.

The days bleed together after the snow.

You fuck her, but slower; sometimes softer, a little less raw, the hurt. Not that you'd ever try to take too much: the thought is unthinkable, un-imagined. Infinitely impossible. You'll pull out and empty everything you have, paint her skin, make her ache, fuck until you know exactly where the bruises are and how to touch them, how to breathe the hurt down from her ribs.

But some mornings: she rolls over onto her side, opens her eyes and smiles. Brilliant like the sun, something that would warm your heart even without trying. Some afternoons, you put the fire on; read something aloud from Mina's bookshelves, and watch the red-orange flames turn Tzuyu's cheeks and neck pink and honey. Evenings, especially the colder ones, you're wrapping her up, blankets, sweatshirts, pulling her close: into bed with the lights turned off. She wants the touch, she craves it, she'll almost whimper when you get near her - and it's you, whispering words against her ear; tracing fingertips lightly against her temple, down the nape of her neck, her lower lip-

"How come you don't kiss me, hm?" She sounds sleepy. "Baby. Don't pretend you're a stone. Like, an unfeeling brute."

"I have my limits, princess."

"Like not kissing someone you're fucking." Her face drops from your sight, and Tzuyu turns over: she curls into her comforter, and her legs nudge the back of yours. "That's so fucking cruel," her voice a little whiny. "But okay, okay - tell me the reasons. Just so we can keep going."

"Keep going, huh. Even though I'm mean."

"Well, yeah, I've done much, much worse," the worst, if you think about it; and it's almost true. Maybe her morality was on the rocks long before yours. "Obviously."

You drop a kiss into her hair. "We both know what that mouth of yours is capable of."

She grins into your skin. Presses her lips, like a sign, and stays.

A girl like her inspires the worst in a man, and that's just about it: you think a man would burn the world down for her, with her, and maybe that would be how all things end, someway, somehow - not because of him or her, the full spectrum of his intentions, all the intricacies and subtleties, and hers too. You're both complicated creatures, sure; both very capable and wanting. Of big feelings, deep attachments: the overflow of your good hearts, perhaps; or, rather: the deficits.

She appeals to your worst impulses, in the plainest terms.

"Jesus Christ," you hiss, hands firm on her lower back; your voice breaking; Tzuyu has shed the bedsheets and climbed into your lap, one leg bent at the knee, digging the other into your ribs - her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"Tell me that's good," she murmurs, hips gyrating, rocking her pussy along your cock. "Like that - right?"

"Fuck- yes," your cock slides into her, your entire length, the rest of the world fogged out: even the fire is quiet. "God, tzu. Feels amazing."

Tzuyu rolls her body forward, rides you with ease, and puts one small hand against your mouth. Her shirt hitches up and over the curve of her spine and then pools at her neck.

"I want to make you cum," she says, all quiet determination and wily confidence, "only you." She rolls her hips in your lap and then finds it: the steady, rhythmic grind down, down. Her ass crashes into your balls; the first telltale sign of that wonderful orgasm to come. "Is it wrong to want this? Like, you and I? Fuck. It feels like your cock was made for me."

"Yeah,” you grit, “fucking you feels - like it's meant to be, huh?"

"Sir," she says with an unhealthy smirk. She’s loving this more than you are, and you can’t really blame her for it: there’s no other sound quite like the slick, wet noise that her pussy makes as her body drops to yours, your cock filling her completely. It's music to your ears.

You grab at her ass, her hip, and pull her closer. She smiles, tilts her face down to you.

"Me too, you know, me too," she murmurs, kissing you softly; when you cup her breasts her breath hitches. "God- fuck- just-"

When she does cum, it's with the faintest little groan; a small, intense quiver in her thighs. You kiss her to swallow down the sound; and feel yourself tip over, and when she fucks you through your orgasm - her smile is dark, wicked, totally satisfied.

And everything else follows, because you're weak: because she makes you want to say no, even while simultaneously being your very favorite yes. You warm your cock inside her with some slow, gentle rhythm, her nipples hard against your shirt, her cries as sweet and earnest as all the best promises; a slow grind down, her fingers scrabbling for the headboard, you lean and lick her breasts, roll her nipples on your tongue - she gasps, tenses, digs her nails hard into your nape.

You'll have her again in the morning, she's adamant.

Her hands find your back, her legs circle your hips. The taste of her sweat. The taste of her nipples; her chest flushed, hair disheveled, pupils blown.

"Not letting me go." She whispers. Her cheeks are a lovely pink. "Even after this?"

You kiss the corner of her mouth, inhaling, wondering what to say.

"Good," Tzuyu tells you, tilting her jaw: "that's really-" She catches her lips with her teeth. "That's so fucking good."

(Her pussy grips your cock like it's the home she's always missed, her lifeline, her safe harbor. And it's dizzying, it's heaven, hell; and, in the morning - when everything is sepia-warm and sleepy - you fuck her again.

A promise, a hope, a plea. It's what makes a girl fall for a guy, in theory.

It's what makes her heart beat. )

"My phone's charging," Tzuyu sniffs the next morning: you're brushing out her hair. The sheets are warm.

You continue combing.

"Sana told me she would be texting, or trying to call."

"Well, that's nice," is all you can manage.

"Babe-" she leans back a bit: turns her gaze to the ceiling, exhaling sharply, "what if she got caught in a whole different avalanche, or fell from the top of a mountain, or something-"

You let go, letting her rest her weight against your thigh. "Honestly? Would serve her right. A little cold, a little damp-"

"If you don't take that back-"

"Alright. Alright. I'll send an apology prayer when I get around to it."

"No you won't." She curls in further, and you stroke her neck, shoulder blade; down the ridges of her spine, across the width of her back.

Tzuyu shudders slightly under your touch.

"Haven't I earned enough good faith, or a clean conscience?"

"Sir, don't pretend."

"Let's pray for Sana, then," you mutter. "Wherever the fuck she is."

"With respect," Tzuyu pipes up, eager: "bitch ain't found."

"Jesus.” You laugh out loud. “At least your brain isn't fully turned to mush, yeah?"

"Give yourself some credit. I can hardly fucking walk. You really pounded the feeling in my legs away."

"Too bad."

"Sorry." And she noses at your collarbone, tugging the waistband of your boxers; "feel free," the drawl of an old, forgotten song, "to make me repent. Baby. Do your thing."

"Right, I forgot that I could convince you to do anything by sliding my dick in your throat. Yikes."

"Baby, just, uh- do whatever." Tzuyu grabs hold of your cock through the thin fabric: one light tap of a finger, "my lips are numb," the suggestion. You really could be her everything: and maybe if you said, stop, please, you won't. She'd pause; look at you like you're insane and maybe spit out what the actual fuck is wrong with you. Like the reality:

This doesn't have to end, no?

"Sorry about your phone battery," you tell her, brushing out the knot at the base of her skull. She exhales, goes soft; lets you tug lightly. "We’ll figure things out when Sana can actually text you, okay?"

"Dumbass. When it's warmer and you drive down to meet her."

"You're not jealous," you tell her. You’ve decided for her.

Tzuyu rolls, leans down on her back, smiling prettily-

"Nope," she agrees, pulling your cock out: already hard, ready to cum down her throat. Her fingers pump soft, slow, the anticipation- "just not done."

"Crazy."

She shrugs and lets the silence calm the world around the two of you; at least for a little while. "Takes a certain kind," she agrees.

"Permissiveness. Like what I'm seeing. Your brand or whatever."

"It’s straight from the heart." She shoots up, making a face you want to kiss. "Honestly."

"Absolutely sincere," you deadpan, and she ignores the jab.

"Tie a bow with my hair," she chuckles, the laughter light, and your fingers graze her temple. "Come on. I'll make you so proud. So pleased. Sir. Let me, let me-"

"Only if I can finish down your throat," you retort - half-joking, but, her eyes grow warm, molten, the lust is immediate - you tip her head, lower it gently - she bites down onto her lip, nods a bit.

You don't take her right away. Not at first. You’re trying to show some restraint, trying not to think about how Tzuyu wears clothes like a vice. She's that kind of girl. Like an accident waiting to happen. She's moving around the kitchen later, poking about the cabinets. She's slid into some jeans that fit her a little too well, and one of those obscenely thin t-shirts.

You watch her back muscles work, how the cotton bunches as she leans, arms extending. Her chest's flat against the counter to grab whatever item's out of her reach. You catch the ribbon in her hair bob slightly back into place when she stands back up. The hairline on the nape of her neck catches a long highlight of a morning, the thin strands a brilliant brown, a spark of warmth in the midst of a muted winter morning - and it's honestly amazing to look at.

(Her ass hangs out in the open like an invitation. Your eyes are running down every curve of denim like they can't help but search.)

"Tzu," is the warning, and she flashes a grin; turns, the expression shifting, wide. "I can literally see everything you have."

"Hm." The front of her shirt lowers, too - her black bralette, barely a scrap of lace and string, visible through the thin fabric. "If I'd known you'd like that so much, you could've told me earlier."

"It's not your job to figure me out."

"Well, I'm not sorry." The words are sugar sweet, with an almost fake concern: her feet pivot, her ass filling your vision- Tzuyu spreads her hands down her outer thighs.

"Be nice," you reiterate. "C'mere."

Her legs snap to you quick.

You are careful, tentative and slow. You leave the ribbon in place and everything; just your mouth, like you have a right to lick down her breasts, her stomach, her clit - like you deserve the faint marks where your hands pressed down onto her waist.

The slow licks, the soft kisses; you could eat her out until the sun sets and Tzuyu was left sobbing through the overstimulation. Her fingers rake your hair like it’s exactly what she’s hoping you’ll do.

When Tzuyu does let go: she doesn't drop. There is no shame, nor shameful whimpers. Instead, she fucking screams, so high and clear it doesn't seem possible: a singer's wail.

"Sir!" she's crying, you can feel it through every tremble. "Oh my god, please-"

You get her to climax twice before the tears fall, your fingers tracing her spine, pressing deeper, a knuckle, then two-

She looks at you in abject reverence, "God, you don't know," is the gasp, "how perfect you are," and you're sure. You'll never get it right again: at least, not without her.

She cums a third time, shivering, collapsing: her eyes wide, glossy, breath shallow, limbs giving in. The sweat clings to her like a lover, a life she doesn't know how to leave.

So, you ask:

"What now, doll?"

Her tongue sweeps the corner of her mouth, a tiny wrinkle.

"Whatever," Tzuyu exhales. "Fuck, whatever, seriously, that was like- amazing- but my throat is actually going to murder me."

"Was the screaming really that necessary."

"Not sure- about anything," is the groggy admission, "like, honestly. Too horny to care, but." She pauses for a second. "You," she finally decides.

"I," is the immediate reply.

"I’ll let you do - anything, but I- can I, like, get a breather? For a minute. Can you wait, like, just."

Her arms open: you settle against her side, and a shaky hand starts combing through your hair. Her other palm lifts to rest against your cheek, cupping it. The nails tap gently along your hairline.

"Been waiting so long, Tzu, honey," and it doesn't sound as cruel or glib as the slip up should be construed - doesn't even bother to count on forgiveness, either. Maybe you're beyond all of that, honestly, and more or less in love, as a result. It’s kind of fucked. What’s a minute more?

She laughs softly, a cough catching up and sounding pained. She's lost her voice, the poor thing, she’s cummed herself hoarse and ragged and you’re proud of your handiwork.

"Honey," you hear her say, and she shakes, pulls herself closer, kisses you back: like the old, gentle motion can ever fully cure the fever of desire that grips the two of you. It's a pipedream, and you're kissing her. It's a pipedream, and you know it.

The calls start coming in after the sun sets and the cabin grows cool with the dark: you feel, faintly, that it's inevitable. That the snow would clear and time would start marching on, a predetermined cycle. (That, maybe, something in the universe - at this stage, almost a hundred years of weather, tectonic plates, astronomical phenomena, interconnected - knew the two of you needed that bit of seclusion.)

"I dunno, just some bog-standard hotel, holiday suites or something. The point is: the roads don’t open until tomorrow and I've been holed up for a while." Sana sighs into the phone. The static pops. "Oh my god, I'm bored out of my mind. I've had like, three full bags of crisps in one sitting, which is just plain wrong."

"You're basically living off carbs." You say this from in front of the fireplace. Tzuyu is sitting on the opposite side of the couch paging through a stack of magazines, wearing a big jumper and sweats and socks pulled up to her knees. Her hair is falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and it makes her look small and domestic and a bit docile - she’d re-tied the ribbon in her hair after you’d fucked it off her, and that more or less completes the look.

"Yes, I have gone off the deep end. A tragic, awful spiral. Because you're not here. Fuck, you have no idea."

"Ah- Sana." You stop. Take a deep breath.

"Do you have any idea? The state of me right now? seriously. I packed so many fucking condoms and the idea of bringing them back home is more defeating than anything else." She lowers her tone a little, then adds, "because, not to be weird, I was kinda sorta hoping we might use them when I got up there."

You blink. Tzuyu isn't even pretending to look anywhere else. Her whole face is shifting into a satisfied expression, and when she catches you looking, she winks.

"Right. Now this might sound like a surprise," Sana is continuing, her voice full of amusement, "but when I get stuck somewhere, alone and thinking about the weather- I'm often in need of a fuck. Please be prepared to service, because god damn, I've got nothing and it's gonna have to be the battery."

"Is that Sana?" Tzuyu interrupts, the tone hushed, but lofty.

You make a face, like: who the fuck else - but that makes her smirk; Sana sighs, then laughs.

"So if you like, you know. If you feel like the vibe is there. I'd appreciate the hand out."

Tzuyu walks over: sets herself down between your feet and kisses your knee. Just to fuck with you. Because she wants to. She holds the kiss, the bow in her hair, done up tight and shiny, visible. You want to tug the stupid thing until it unravels; all your fingertips, her lips, and she sighs-

"Oi," Sana's saying on the line. You can hear her crash onto her bed. "You still there?"

"I'm sorry," you say, "are you uh, asking for phone sex - or did I totally read that all wrong."

"Nope. Pretty direct." Sana laughs, and the sound should make it easy to close your eyes, picturing it: a silver smile, the low slung skirt and a stretch of stockinged leg, the twinkle of a drink as the ice hits her mouth. It’d be easy, y'know, if your gaze wasn't pinned on the girl who's settled at your feet.

"Oh, jesus, okay," you manage to breathe. Tzuyu hums a little: reaches for your fly. "Is there anything, anything that you want me to do?"

Sana's laughter drops to a murmur: the air goes heady as Tzuyu parts the zipper and rolls down the waist of your pants- "ask me what I'm wearing, duh."

"Boring," Tzuyu breathes into the air. Because apparently Sana's defining trait is being loud. The kiss to your clothed cock is hot, teasing - her eyes never lift away, "always, always start with, 'darling, sweetheart,' or something stupid, sweet." Her tone is pure syrup: you can feel the warm, the wet; a fucking tease, all the way to her core.

"What are you wearing, darling?" you ask, dryly. Tzuyu rolls her eyes.

Sana's grin widens and you swear it's audible, "oh, just these boring pajamas." She draws it out slow and sexy and completely aware. "It's all loose cotton, and it doesn't hang off me, just folds."

"Is it the type that comes down to the mid-thigh? The white kind, where you can see through to the skin?"

"That's a little presumptive, don't you think? A bit on the nose? Yeah, fine, I'm wearing the kind, if you absolutely insist. These legs, bare. Maybe you'd want to bite. Y'know. Mark 'em'. Whatever."

Tzuyu is kissing the outline of your shaft. Pulling your hard-on out from its confines - all gentle and tentative. Her pretty brown eyes dart upward, gauging: okay, just do your thing - you shrug - but it'd be so helpful if you could scoot to the end of the cushion for me, can you-

"Yeah," you're agreeing into the phone, somewhat vague - to no one in particular. You don't give Tzuyu just an inch; instead, you lift your thighs toward her. Sliding, Tzuyu pulls your pants down: enough. There's a delicate pressure applied at the bottom of your cock, right at the base, right where Tzuyu drags her nails. "Let's have that show off a little," your breath comes shallow, "then. Strip, real slow. We can try for something sexy I guess."

"You," Tzuyu kisses the base and shuffles up the rest of your shaft, "just love bossing people around," then her lips part: the slightest graze, then warmth, the faint suction. “Don’t you?”

"Uh-huh," says Sana, and then the rustle of cloth: and you could imagine her, really, lifting the shirt up, off, sliding it along the inside of her ribs, over the tips of her breasts - she'd cup them, lean into the contact. Sana's hands are always on her tits, or the spread of her hips - she likes the shape of her body more than anyone else. "Sometimes, that's the best way," she tells you. Her breath is hot, full of sex. "Being told what to do. Isn't that true, hm?"

Tzuyu tilts forward, lets your cock drop over her bottom lip. It leaves a smear of spit in its wake, the sensation electric. Her head falls, swallows the whole of the tip: her tongue immediately swirls. A hot little pulse. Her cheeks hollow.

"Yeah. Some could probably argue," your breath catches, the weight of the sensation, the fullness, your hips arch, your spine straightens. The electricity goes through your stomach and down your spine; you can feel the wave rolling along. Tzuyu giggling into the stiff line of your cock-

"Telling us both?" Tzuyu smiles again, running her lips slowly up and down the sides, teasing with her breath and her fingers running down the ridges. "What you want." She hums low, into the hot air.

You press your phone to your neck. "Can you, like-

Tzuyu pulls her mouth off your cock. Just sits there blinking. “Hm?” she asks, tugging a strand of her hair from the corner of her mouth.

“Just please stay quiet, or something- this is already harder than I thought it would be," the joke is as unsubtle as they come, "jesus, okay-" and put the phone back to your ear, "shit, Sana- can you, like-"

Her fucking mouth. The seal, the press - the tongue swirling around your head. Fuck.

“Yeah, babe? What do you want to know?”

The words aren't coming and a very obvious swallow is, Tzuyu leaning closer, and her fingers tangle with yours - guiding you closer, guiding your hand to the ends of her hair.

"Explain," is somehow where you land, shaky. You stick the landing just enough that Sana might buy it. "What are you doing now?"

"Slow circles. On my nipples, pinching," her voice strains, then settles,"yeah, the tip's so sensitive. Jihyo was laughing that guys always obsess over her tits. Always wanna suck, or nibble and I'm like, girl, what the hell are you complaining for?" - Tzuyu inhales a huge breath, and then another: her lips, those eyes - open and glossy, every movement steady like she knows just how to make the wait worth it - "or, or maybe I'm just weird, because the first time I felt someone's teeth and their tongue. Fuck, like, I almost screamed. Or, cried. Literally."

"Hah," and Tzuyu brings her lips lower. Moves her hair gently out of the way to take the rest of you into her mouth: bobbing up, her lips puckering in some rhythm, and her tongue darts, swirls the edge of the cock. Tongue at the slit. The pressure. Fuck, your head falls back. Every breath sounds heavy, loud. "Fingers,” you huff, “are good too I'm sure. I’d be paying close attention. Making you feel good."

"Mhm." Sana agrees. "The little pinches, ugh, I could die happy if you did just that, it's that fucking amazing."

"Baby," you half-moan. You’re struggling. The mouth stops, then sinks: down, all the way. Fucking amazing. Fucking hell.

"Oh?" Sana laughs airly, "are you touching yourself, hm? No fair, are you going to leave me all lonely here-"

You can see that smirk. The fuckery that would come: Sana's version.

"Sir," Tzuyu mumbles, sounding muffled. Her mouth is a tight vise of warmth, and your hand threads through her hair again. You hold, tighten the ribbon a bit, and Tzuyu stares at you through half-lidded eyes: you don't think she'll blink until you make her cry, and by then-

“Fuck,” Sana says, totally flat, "I'm actually pretty wet," the emphasis, "so I'd like some real advice, y'know-"

You see her legs. The tops. The bottom, all the way down- and you inhale sharply, too much and too hard.

Tzuyu has her fist at the base of your cock and her palm is sliding down the slick flesh and, a moment later, up, meeting her mouth at the top of its stroke - and, without a goddamn care, she hollows her cheeks - puckers her lips along the surface.

You were right. "This is hell."

Sana hums a laugh. "Need me that bad, huh? We're missing each other by just a couple days."

You stroke the top of Tzuyu's hair, her bow bobbing in a nice little bounce. Sana would know better than to wear her hair up. To even go near this, her throat - you hold her jaw steady, maybe a second, the moment of recovery to make Tzuyu slow and careful: her tongue does a pass at the sensitive, rigid underside of the crown, the sudden movement - before she speeds up.

"Picturing your hand." She tells you in a languid tone.

"God," you half-say, half-moan, and Tzuyu is good. So fucking good, and the mouth is too damn eager and it's difficult to think.

You barely get your hand free to switch to speaker, then let it clatter to the side. Tzuyu grinning, her lips flushed red and wet and dragging over your cock, sliding down, her tongue doing another pass, swirling at the center, the flare-

"Thinking about you, actually, fuck," Sana has a hitch to her breath that wasn't quite there before. "Doing those things, that mouth all over, Jesus Christ - ah- my legs, my breasts, fuck- are you jerking off right now? You sound, well, pretty uh, yeah."

"Just saying," you breathe, as the shock and the sensations rise and fall; Tzuyu's edging you in her mouth, her own head starting to shake, her chin bobbing up and down the full, long line of your dick - she's never done anything by halves. "It's getting- I'm thinking about you, Sana, of course, and your- pretty cunt, god, of course, so- ah, close- you said you were wet?"

"Huh? Of course, dripping. Imagining you - your thick, your cock," Sana sorta giggles, out of it then-

Tzuyu moans. Her body is pliant and her shoulders roll; she sucks, her cheeks dip, her back arches, and all of the noises hit the air thick, all while Sana's voice sharpens - both girls, two. You're slipping off the cushion, and probably out of your mind. The ache builds and burns and yearns for some sort of release-

"-how wet and tight I would feel, after so fucking long. Please, fuck, fuck-" you hear Sana, "would you, fuck, c'mon, how I would look, on top of you? Could feel- the stretch, your cock deep inside. The, fuck- friction."

There’s this beat, where it’s just Sana’s stiff breathing; you can picture her wrist between her thighs, the pump, the twist as her fingers run over and over again through the sound of her slick. You’re left wondering if she can hear too, the mouth trailing kisses along your balls, tongue gliding back up and swallowing your length whole.

“Mnph.” Tzu chokes down a little.

And you look down, you have to eventually - to see the steady stare. Tzuyu's brows pinched and her eyelashes fanning out over the hollowed curve of her cheekbones. Pretty, fuck. Beautiful. So sexy: she looks up, swallows you back, like a fucking slut. Her mouth, wet, messy, hot, and her body-

"Third finger, by the way," Sana strains, "'cause- fuck, my pussy - my tight little hole would be swallowing your cock so damn good."

"Mmm, fuck." You're reduced to your base instincts, pulling Tzuyu's hair, dragging her wet, velvety mouth onto your shaft - she follows willingly, no question of her pace slowing, but - more, and more, and you could probably cum in her mouth if her hands weren't clasped firmly over your thighs and you weren't brushing away the tears pricking the ends of Tzuyu's lashes- you won't tell. Not with your fingers. Fuck. Her nails bite at the skin of your bare legs. She looks angry, insistent. Choking.

Sana sounds just as out of sorts, out of breath, "you would feel so fucking good. Look so good. Let me have it- whatever I need, yeah?" And you think she's close: it's that keen edge, a faint, broken whine. She's never going to finish any way except- "would you, inside me? Y'know- make me cum, real full. God- are you close? Would you make a mess out of me? Of my pretty pussy?"

“Okay, holy fuck-" and the question barely even hits you.

Tzuyu is glaring now, shaking: she wants you to lose it, and she looks furious, holding her fingertips, her thumb on the base of your cock: a new pressure, a new feeling, a new pulse, a new high- she wants you to forget about Sana, maybe. What she sounds like, how she looks. Her legs wide, her bare, slicked skin on display. For you, yes. Fucking her until she- "uh, baby," and this time, your voice makes her smile, and her teeth drag. You wince. Her pupils are blown out, and there's a flush building in her chest. "Where are you?"

"Laying down. Flat- god. Where I'm always-" and you imagine a plane of soft, tanned, toned legs, her wide hips, "I'd, yeah, in a second. Pressure at my back- it would feel so fucking good, y’know, if you were here."

You have no doubt in your mind: Sana would be gorgeous. Even from the back, she'll be hotter, fuck, she always is, especially like that - and the movement of Tzuyu's fingers tightens against the straining, needy ache, and-

"Please, fuck, fuck- need to-"

"Would cum- a lot, that's it- over my back. Oh, yes, all over my back. My ass. Messy. fuck that's actually so good, jesus christ-" and then Sana lets out another soft keen and a shout - and it's so sweet and high-pitched and familiar, almost musical; she's cumming, hard. You're only a second, a third behind and-

Your balls draw tight and a coil in your stomach unfurls-

Tzuyu sees you, grins, your eyes trained on the pink of her mouth and her perfect, wet lips and the deep brown eyes - her dimpled cheek is the softest fucking thing - but the rest, her mouth, her wet heat: it's pure sensation. The tight vise of a throat swallowing, the taste on the flat of her tongue. You've got your cock shoved deep in her mouth, and you're not easy to take. Fucking Tzuyu's face, thrusting and the throbs of your cock pumping out a hot, heavy spill. More and more: sticky, filling, spreading out from the corners of her lips. Tzuyu gurgles, struggling - fuck, finally letting go with a weak pop, falling back, and the white mess runs hot over her mouth. Your release smeared across her lips, dripping off her jaw - fucking christ - her tongue, her eyelashes - a wild mess of fluid. It splatters against her pale skin - runs down the hollow of her throat to the edges of her chest. She has her fingers working fast still, a squelching tight fist: you cum all over the stupid, cutesy bow too. It's all you see, the only thing-

“Fuck,” Sana says, oblivious. “That’s good.”

-before your eyelids shutter close, a ringing in your ears and your heart racing; and, not far, another sigh, followed by the slide of your phone down the couch.

"Aw, you done already?" Sana says. Lazily. You can see the look on her face, probably rubbing her pussy and thinking about more - if there’s any two ways the girls compare, it’s this allergic reaction to anything like temperance or moderation. You need new friends, new lovers; this can’t last.

"Uh-huh." The back of your head digs into the couch cushions. Fuck. Sana. Phone. On speaker. Oh. Right. Shit. "But I was- mnph. Uhh." Your brain has lost a lot of blood. It's doing nothing. Nothing but losing blood. You wish it’d stop. “I’m here, Sana, talk to me.”

Sana giggles at that, delighted, "don't tell me you're in such bad shape I need to save you-"

"The uh," your voice slurs. Then you're pulling the phone to you, closer. Fuck. Yeah. You're an idiot. Your breath is heavy: "I could go for more, yeah, how’re you feeling?"

"So fucking tired." Her breathing sounds less ragged. A full breath. A pout: a poor me.

"Hmm." Tzuyu crawls onto you. Slides the fabric of your shirt between her palms, up and down your ribs. She pushes the sweater and tee away. Bares your stomach- then kisses there. Lower, and then rises, looking through her lashes. It's clear: a demand. She'll be insisting, pressing down on you, kissing, running her teeth along the edges of your shoulders, your neck. She’ll kiss you right now if you let her - until she sinks into a promise at the center of your body. Your back is arching off the leather from the sensitivity, and Tzuyu has her lips all over you - smiling when your hands tangle with the long strands of her hair.

She pauses. You drop a hand to Tzuyu's waist. Pinch.

"Ow-" she says, coming across slightly betrayed.

And, satisfied with the expression her face, the phone cradled between your chin, her lips warm over your ribs, her head tickling the edges of your jaw, you keep laughing, or you want to, but Tzuyu takes you between her thighs, lifts a little on your cock - her eyes widen: she's testing your flexibility. Trying to drag this out, trying for teasing. She’s good at that (a verifiable truth), but you’re you - you see right through it: she likes how it feels, the thickness and size of you. Tzuyu keeps sliding slowly down the full length, letting you fill her inch by inch - her slick heat feels unbearable.

“God,” she mutters, and she’s making the dreamiest expression - the blush in her cheeks, the eyelids hung low, the mouth slightly agape - she lifts up, then slams all the way to the base, flush. You grab anything you can to hold onto. Her legs. Her ass. Her thighs. Her jaw. That perfect little fucking waist.

She’s sublime. Your cock is bathing in her slick, the wet heat, the throbbing pulses - she's gasping in your lap, like she can’t believe how good you feel filling her cunt.

"Sana," you grit, "there's- nothing else in the world I'd rather do right now than shove my cock-”

“Ugh,” Sana sighs in agreement, in imaginary bliss. “In my little fucking pussy- you’re making me miss you, or something, jesus-”

You squeeze her thigh and her lips quirk, just barely, a challenge.

"Want put a nice thick load" - the hand on Tzuyu's hip brings her down in your lap, fucking up hard as her chest racks with breath - "in your slutty little cunt" - you fuck her faster, the sounds of flesh against flesh obscene - "fill up your pussy, princess. Would cum in it until" - and the last inch of your cock, filling Tzuyu’s cunt, you've no control - "you're a mess, you're dripping in it-"

Tzuyu's movements still. A pause. Her hips. Your own, and all the rest, every nerve in your body is on fire.

She moves with the most graceful slide, her wet lips gliding - gripping - up your cock. Then, down. The quiet. The lull. The pause before she does it again. She has cum all over her face, and she’ll kill you. You’ll let her.

"God. We'll have to get around to it," Sana finally tells you, dryly, "when this fucking snow clears. Say hi to Tzuyu for me won’t you?"

You're not a bad person.

(The reassurance that you aren’t - or don’t want to be? - is probably still not super convincing. There's some line drawn there, blurred, crossed, and thoroughly annihilated by your actions, you think, vaguely, but maybe it's better if no one sees, hears, finds out. The finer details matter a lot less at that point.)

You're like anybody else: you get desperate to hold onto something, somebody, even for just a moment. Sometimes you don’t even need a reason at all.

Tzuyu is stepping out of the shower, her head bobbing: it takes everything in you not to drag her back in there. She’d let you. She wouldn’t even complain.

You can hear the catch and the slide of a bath towel, the wisp of water hitting the bottoms of her feet and trailing, an exaggerated moan - a gesture, meant to entice, a suggestion: fuck her right back in the shower until her hair is plastered to her cheeks, and she's panting. Or the steam lifts her breasts in a gentle, humid press. That mouth on the tiles - sobbing.

“Tzu,” you call out, and she just continues humming some indifferent tune.

You pull a thick sweater over your head: it's gray wool, and it's all clean and good and new. When she wraps her arms around you, a deep inhale: a grin, then a shiver. She's naked and dripping everywhere, wet hair leaving a trail in its wake. She burrows her face in the folds of fabric at your spine - and if you turned, the slightest movement, the smooth line of her torso would be exposed, and your fingers could trace down her belly button, the tips dipping between her legs-

The window is fogging at the bottom, the steam slipping out in tendrils - but the heat can't compete against the girl all wet and dripping, and it does nothing but give way to the cold, seeping in.

"I still think it's funny," she says, all matter of fact. "It's weird that this isn't awkward."

“What’s that?”

She's at the doorway.

“Us. Being here.”

You turn, and Tzuyu pulls at your sweater: looking for attention, always seeking out the easy praise. Her hand automatically slides beneath the cloth of your collar, drawing your jaw up for a short, hard kiss.

"Okay," and there's a small nod, the line of her throat pulsing as she breathes, "yeah," her chest rising and falling.

"Look at you,” you tell her. “All dry and tidy. Cute. "

A dumb comment earns you the tiniest smile, then she's leaning back, taking her hands to her hair and wringing out the water, pulling and tugging at the tangles - the towel wraps around her waist again and again, and she looks good, clean: it makes you think of what comes later. Not having to give a fuck - at least not for a little while.

"Jeez," she's shivering, still, and rubbing the tops of her arms, "and Sana is gonna be, like, all over you once she gets the chance. Wants a nice lay too, from the sound of it. Was being honest about that. Seems pretty pent up."

“Maybe you can help,” you offer, a bit flippant. She smiles - but in all seriousness, it’s a resounding: no.

There's something else, too, as she runs her fingertips, absently, through her hair - it falls flat on her neck and around her bare shoulders, dark against the lightness of her skin, but somehow you get the impression that she's not entirely preoccupied. "Y'know, I had a really good time and all, but I'm not the homewrecker type, yeah - it's not worth the stress," a slight shrug, like she isn't certain, her mind a little more tangled than usual, and for good reason, too, "probably won't hook up ever again."

"Gloomy," you tease.

"Don’t act like you're not going to miss it," she says, conspiratorial - and Tzuyu plants herself where you can feel her in your space - but she doesn't press. "Even when you're keeping busy, you'll have the smallest reminder, like - aha, Tzuyu would've really liked this, or that - when, y'know - you're stuck somewhere, thinking about the weather," and her cheeks are heating with color as her tongue forms the syllables - and the meaning is clear now as it always was.

“Even if you’re like, totally smitten, or whatever with her,” she adds, smirking.

"Sana will be back to her usual antics in no time. Being annoying and forward and whatever," you reply. "Won't miss much."

The girl's expression flickers a little - a slight twitch - but otherwise, a flat look.

She fixes the lay of her towel across her wide hips. You reach for her arm: pull at it, pulling her toward.

"I mean- Sana and I have a few things in common, anyway. Something in common. Can both be a spoilsport. Dull. Can be a bit, uh, territorial, if you you know-"

The rest is cut off, the words running into a kiss, deep and desperate; there's no place like her mouth: soft, eager, hot.

"And our usual antics?" she asks.

She leans into you, the chill starting to set, a fire burning nearby: something clandestine that maybe shouldn't last as long as it does. A log settling against the others, another plume of heat, and you say, a touch solemn,

"Dunno if we've ever been in common about anything, babe."

"Jeez. You don't have to spell it out like that, do you?" Tzuyu laughs lightly, holding the bath towel at her hips - her breasts are bare. They fall without support, her nipples, the slope of her ribs, everything. "I mean, how cruel."

(It isn't really. Because, here's the thing. In the grand scheme of things, Chou Tzuyu was never really supposed to happen at all.)

The snow clears, like all things you suppose, slowly and with a sigh: with the change in winds and a promise for a gradual spring. Tzuyu steals a shirt. Doesn't seem inclined to return it, says she's good at letting her imagination do half the work in lieu of the actual sex. (The nip is like a sting: it'll last longer, apparently. The bruising at the edges of her waist is more abstract.)

You’re in the driveway. Tzuyu’s leaning back on her luggage.

She kisses you like she wants to make you lose something: her lipstick, her mind, her heart or soul. And when her arms slide, her mouth parting - her tongue darting and sweeping, taking - Tzuyu knows a good many things about herself. She knows you, too. What makes her wet, what gets her off. What part of you will always come back to her. But her hair falls heavy: so much silk. She's laughing - a grin and she's licking the pink right off her teeth and she's beautiful and you think you'll want this always:

A girl like her, kissing so eager for you-

"You can totally say it first," she tells you, that mouth at the edge of your ear.

"Um," you say, and she settles down a little further, her wrists locked behind your neck. "You are so: clingy."

The look she gives you is adorable. All dimple, no worry. “Yeah, so?”

“How is that fair?”

"I don't really care if it is or isn’t. We’d be good together - and that’s a fact. So say something good, or I'm getting in that cab right now."

So you do. You do. The first word, the syllable, the way you ask her, the sound that is something like: mine, and the way it dries the edge of your throat; you kiss it away and she giggles because maybe this means, after a while, you really are as terrible as she always hoped.

She'll give you everything. She says, yours, and it would always be you; she halts a bit, and says it like she’s thawing a revelation, one that’s been there since the start - says she loves you and she always has. You laugh and she says it again: always.

Sana ends up standing in the cabin a day later. The same place you stood, watching Tzuyu lick yogurt off her spoon. Her coat looks expensive. There's her purse. The boots. That red-painted mouth. Her eyes are fixed, and she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Which is probably, you think, ideal.

"That's funny," her face betrays nothing.

The cabin smells a little like burning wood, vaguely: peppermint tea. An electric kind of heat and the warmth of the sun. It had smelled like evidence prior, the way a girl gets with her underwear missing, hair a tangled mess, body sore and aching, a wet bed. You'd looked like a pair of kids caught in a terrible storm, a lovers' quarrel in a small space - or, just: well-fucked.

"What's funny?" is how you finally manage.

"I just mean," she starts again, "she used to have like. The craziest crush on you. It would’ve been cute if it wasn't sorta sad. Did you know? You couldn't, I guess." She shrugs: a heavy lift of her shoulders, a release. The tension is leaking everywhere. "Must've been torture for her to get stuck here with you."

"Huh," you say, like you were missing something, which is exactly the wrong tone and definitely the wrong sentiment. “Oh, the crush. That. Sure.” You’re suppressing a smile. “Torture, yeah. Hey. Don't worry about it. I’m sure we’ll be fine."

(You can’t stop running it back through your head, her long dark hair disappearing into the cab. She loves you and you love her, and it’s got this beautiful caveat of being something simple-complex. Like, who would ever believe any of this? Like, who else even matters?

You say, you belong to me, and she agrees without even thinking.

“You always knew, though. From the start, you always did. I was never going to be anyone else's," and then she pouts. "Wouldn’t hurt telling me, from time to time."

And the mountains have a way of feeling like the end, sounding like the closing score, the credits - you look out at the white caps and reflect: maybe you shouldn’t have let her go. Maybe you should chase after her. Maybe you could still make it work. Maybe you should consider that a promise.

You look up at the sky, the pale blue - and maybe you can afford to let her go.

You know you’ll only find your way back.)

#tzuyu smut #twice smut #tzuyu #twice tzuyu smut #kpop smut #male reader smut

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taegularities · 8 months

Text

colour me in: seven | jjk (m)

Summary: At first, it's an argument that causes the unwanted, childish distance between Jungkook and you. And then… open blazers and a lip ring.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: est. rel.; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: an argument, cute couple-y things but also they're dorks n cringe sometimes, seven jk (incl the promo pics, laundromat hoodie bf koo, and drenched in the rain koo!!), fighting over food, they're a bit mean to each other, but they adore each other too, brief mention of a rough childhood, sexual tension, taeun being everything, kissing, dumb jokes, period and pms mention!!, a photoshoot!, subtle hints to the future of the main story :'); explicit sexual content: ahh.. making out, dirty talk, oral (f. & m. receiving), brief spanking, face-fcking, light choking, sweet and rough sex, dom jk, big dick jk, whipped simp jk, petnames, multiple orgasms, sex on the couch n on the floor? :'), he loves her a$$ and tiddies, multiple positions, cockwarming!!, mention of aftercare... the ending lol :D ➳ word count: 25k lmfaoo it's oneshot sized yall 😁 ➳ a/n: hi!! welcome back!! this is part of my series colour me in, but you can read it as a standalone-oneshot!! tysm for supporting me and encouraging me, guys, it means so so much. this is also unbeta'd, so pls go easy on me LOL. and since this was a piece of worrrrk.. come and talk to me about it, it makes my day fr fr <33 ➳ listen to: seven by jungkook | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

In hindsight, your argument was blissfully domestic after all. In hindsight, maybe even comedic.

You’ve seen these things on TV and read about them in novels; didn’t experience them growing up because your parents didn’t really fight over such harmless matters. They never needed to lift a finger in their ultramodern kitchen, filled with up-to-the-minute equipment to fill their table.

But Jungkook and you don’t rely on such luxuries. You do things for yourself. So, such a couple-y, casual life leads to couple-y, casual arguments. Requires it. Fighting is healthy; entangles two souls some more.

Which is exactly where you are now. Exactly what you’ve become: A true unit. Quarrelling over trivial, everyday things.

Just to end up folded in half, holding onto the very last of your sanity, biting back more inappropriate screams.

In regards of making up, you’re perhaps not that casual. Because he’s a relentless, brutal beast.

Wrecking you right where everything began.

Monday

The end of the day begins with a giant hole in the middle of your thoughts.

Your previously whirring brain tossed away all thoughts of advertisements and seasonal launches, vacant and dark until your senses shut down everything that wasn’t vital to survival.

Like the lights of the evening as your car passed the streetlamps. The tired faces on the pedestrian zone, the odd wrinkles in your skirt, or the scent wafting from the kitchen when you step out of your heels.

Your mind operates on reflexes and automatic movements; the ball of your palm rubs against your eyelid, realising too late that you’re probably smearing your eyeliner.

A sense of reality only truly returns when you hear a familiar voice call out your name, muffled through the walls between you.

You exit the bedroom with fingers scratching the nape of your neck, tiny steps floating over the floor and past the living room. On the coffee table, you register one or two dishes. Rice, too. Smells so good, but…

As you reach him in the kitchen, you halt at the threshold, eyes scurrying to the few pots and ladles in the sink. He’s diligent and fast; cleans up when dinner simmers. Minimal work left after the meal.

For a moment, you take in the cleanliness of the kitchen, and when your eyes move up to the man himself, you beam.

He’s wearing an apron – baby blue with little flowers and rainbows imprinted on it. His mom bequeathed him with one of her old ones, and he’s been boasting about it ever since.

You saw one with astronauts, moons and telescopes once; you might purchase it for him at some point, not least of all because it includes all the things the two of you love.

A tattooed hand pushes back his mane, messy and pointing in all directions the way it does after his showers. His fingers card through the fine tresses two more times before he turns towards you — an immediate smile, similar to yours, spreads across his face.

The tiny little dimples over the corners of his mouth distract you for a second until you see his hand at waist level, beckoning you into the kitchen and a greeting, sweet embrace.

Compared to the cold outside, his oversized, full-sleeve, white shirt offers a familiar warmth. He always smells the same, musky and fresh; not like cherry blossoms at all, but he reminds you of their softness.

Mixed with the scent of tonight’s meal, you inhale it all, wrapping your arms around him as your eyes close in exhaustion. If he wasn’t swaying you in his hold, you’d probably fall asleep, right there against his chest.

A kiss to your temple, and he asks, “Hungry?”

You’re not sure. You cuddle into the apron and whatever’s visible of his shirt, and mumble against him, “Not too much… to be honest, I was gonna shower and sleep.”

“Oh?” he wonders immediately, traces of disappointment in his voice. “But I made this for you.”

You smile again. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll eat, don’t you worry.” You take a deep breath, and then lift your head off his chest without letting go. “In all honesty. I saw the food outside and thought you had it delivered.”

“So you were gonna waste something you thought was restaurant food?”

You laugh. You’re sure you could see his rosy pout even if you weren’t looking straight at him.

“No. It just looks very good… I would’ve heated it up tomorrow. But since yours was a one-person-effort,” you pat his back in pride, watching as strands of his bangs fall back into his eyes, “we shall eat.”

“And it comes from the heart, too.”

“Right. It comes from the heart, too.”

You rub his back once, soon backing away. There isn’t much to do for you anymore, but you still grab a couple napkins, chopsticks and spoons as he carries some water into the living room.

The couch feels soft, true Heaven, when you sink into it. Your heartbeat slows down, your mind at ease; when you tilt your head, your neck cracks.

But clinking your glasses of water with someone who cherishes you enough to step back and forth in a kitchen for hours… It's a comfort that’s incredibly close to a peaceful night’s sleep.

And it’s worth the effort, too. Despite the conversation and your complaints about work, you can’t help but compliment dinner every other moment. Possibly another endearing habit you picked up from him.

But you slow down when fatigue returns bit by bit, your eye twitching when you feel a well-known tickling in it.

You’re careful of potential spices when you lift your thumb and rub your eye with the back of it, fighting the itch. For a moment, you stop chewing, and Jungkook only lifts his gaze to you when the movement against your eye continues, circling motions.

“Hey,” he says, grasping your wrist, pulling it down slowly, “that’s bad for the cornea.”

“Yeah, I mean. It’s not like my cornea's been nice to me, either.”

You resume chewing, swallowing the mushy remnants of the rice. Your attention falls back to the bowl of food, and your chopsticks aimlessly poke around for a second before he asks, “Why? You okay?”

“Mhm,” you say, nodding gently. “It’s just,” you point to your eyes, chopsticks dangerously close to your face, “that eye thing. It might be an infection or something. It’s so bad today that it’s hurting my head.”

You’ve complained about the issue a couple times — back when it was just an itch, you assumed it was the dusty town, perhaps even sleep deprivation. But the itch has transformed into a relentless pain, moving up your temples and across your forehead.

“Again, yeah?” Jungkook asks, following with a tender gesture of tucking your hair back. The pad of his thumb brushes over your eyebrow. “I’ll massage your head before we go to sleep.”

You sigh in relief, tired eyelids shutting briefly as you claim, “You’re the fucking best, you know?”

“Yeah.” He delivers a nonchalant, drama-esque shrug of his shoulder. Unmistakable smirk. “I guess I do know.”

The giggles from when you started dating still remain. You remember annoying the hell out of your friends back then, high school butterflies visible through your stomachs and in your bright grins.

Jungkook’s ears would redden, a smile even in your eyes. You can imagine how irritating the honeymoon phase felt to them — not that the two of you ever snapped out of it.

Even now, you’re drowning in it.

Well, until you’re not.

Because the moment he slings his arm around you, leaning back, his plate and bowl empty, you move forwards. Place your own dishes onto the table, cuddling further into him.

Only, he seems to interpret it differently.

“Aren’t you eating anymore?”

Not the message you intended to deliver. But perhaps… he’s not wrong after all.

Because…

While the evening ended on a gentle note, much needed, you’re done with today by now. Craving a warm bed, strong arms around you. A sweet, soft sleep.

And the meal is worth a thousand culinary stars, but your appetite keeps dwindling, and hadn’t he put so much effort and affection into all this, you would’ve probably headed straight to bed.

So you answer truthfully, “I can’t eat more…”

“Hmm.” He briefly points to your portion. “You just ate half of it.”

Brief silence. It must’ve gotten late, because among the quieter traffic on the main road afar, you hear a couple nightlife bugs chirping, too.

You look between the bowl and him slowly, blinking, unsure what to say. The arm around your shoulder doesn’t match his tone, so it feels a little awkward now.

You mutter, “I’m sorry.”

Because should you force yourself to scarf all of this down now, you probably won’t be able to sleep.

But Jungkook’s hums and insecure voice are making you feel bad — you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s the puppy-doe nature, a combination of forlorn, soft eyes and pouty words.

“Ah… It’ll go bad by tomorrow, but…” he starts, but you cut in—

“Fridge?”

An immediate shake of his head, a click of his tongue. “Not with that one. I mean, we could, but it’s gonna be all dry and unpalatable in the morning, y’know?”

You don’t fully have a right to be annoyed. Neither of you does. But the day’s been irksome, work a mess, paper sheets flying around — on top of that, you finished your blister pack of birth control last Friday.

The period, probably approaching tomorrow and meddling with your busy schedule, is already putting you in a sour mood.

So the current lack of a solution doesn’t help your drooping eyelids and still partly tumultuous mind.

You push yourself forward on the couch, sighing before you suggest, “Okay. Then I’ll eat.”

“Woah,” he immediately voices, dropping his arm. He attempts to pull the bowl out of your reach, but you grip it tight, swallowing a small bite of rice. “I’m not forcing you to.”

“Yeah, but still.”

Another sigh of frustration falls out of you, your full stomach crying, but you pull the bowl to you, another bite ready between your chopsticks. But a moment later, Jungkook pushes your hand down again, every rice corn falling back to its prior place, fortunately never leaving the bowl.

Unbelieving, you shoot an aghast glare at him, to which he responds, “Don’t force it. Seriously.”

A rice corn still sticks to your lower lip, and you pull it in with the tip of your tongue. You place the warm meal back onto the table, half turning to Jungkook, voicing an irritated, “Dude!”

“You don’t have to,” he assures, but he looks clearly offended. Looks away, rubs his thigh, eyeing every object on the table before he adds quieter than before, “You know… That’s happened a couple times in the last few weeks.”

“…What did?”

“I’d cook for you and you wouldn’t finish it.”

“Babe… The last few weeks have been tiring.”

“I know,” his voice grows higher at the end of the syllable, but then calms again after a sigh. “But we refrigerated a lot of stuff, some of which I shared with Joon or Tae the next day. Or threw away.”

“Nah.” The ridiculing smirk you respond with isn’t intentional. You drop it right away, but still shake your head in disbelief, defending, “You know I eat up most of the time, especially when you cook. Just today, I can’t do more than this, okay?”

He gulps. Two fingers scratch his ear, eyes once again skimming over empty plates or remnant-filled bowls. He drops his digits back to his thighs, rubbing once more, and then puffs out a breath between rounded lips before he comes to a stand.

And then, all he does is nod; shooting a simple, “Alright.”

His tone is stern. You recognise the expression — his eyes still big, but different now. Usually filled with warm sparkles, they look pissed now. Not because of his dropping lids or the missing crinkles.

Jungkook doesn’t need to move a lot of muscles to look angry; the lack of the glimmer is just enough.

His lips are shut, not parted as they usually are when he focuses on something like his art or cooking or cleaning up. He’s exhaling and inhaling deeply through his nose, hands working on the dishes, but the fall and rise of his chest…

“You’re mad,” you conclude.

He looks back at you, the corners of his mouth never moving. His tone remains flat as he tries to convince you, “No. All good.”

Straightening his back, he attempts to walk away, hiding away in the kitchen until you’ve fallen asleep. He and you don’t argue too much — the little, couple-y, casual fights aren’t quite fights at all.

But they do end with a short distance until one is ready to approach the other and communicate again. A good strategy to cool your minds. You wouldn’t wanna discuss such a thing right away.

This time, however, you don’t want him to leave.

You pull him back again, holding onto the cotton shirt, and he protests with a loud call of your name and furrowed eyebrows as you insist, “No, you are mad.”

Your hand pushes against the couch, your body lifting, and you look him in the eye with a frustrated crease between your eyebrows. “Kook, I just am not capable of finishing it right now. You’re making a bigger deal out of it than you sho—”

“Yeah. Okay,” he interrupts, feigning acceptance and understanding, “it’s fine.” You scoff; sometimes, he’s truly as moody as you. “Things are different here, it’s fine.”

…What?

The sentence nearly comes out as a whisper as he finally starts walking away, and you only register it when he’s halfway out of the room. He balances the dishes in both hands, and you follow him to the kitchen.

Ask, “What’s different? Where’s here?”

“I work, too, you know? I get tired, too.”

“Jungkook,” you try again, slamming the hand against the counter; the sound’s muffled by a bright green cleaning cloth. “What are you talking about, things are different here?”

“Just.” He doesn’t seem to wanna talk. Carefully, he places the empty stuff in the wash basin, working on finding containers to dump the leftovers in them. “I get tired from working in the city, too, but I guess I grew up differently.”

…Huh.

You wait.

Let him collect his thoughts until he tells you, “In the countryside, you work for food, so you get used to finishing dinner. I know people around here rely on supermarkets, and honestly, I do, too,” his shoulders rise as he shovels the tofu dish into a box, “and I guess that’s why it makes sense why it’s easier for you to leave leftovers.”

Wow. Some statements in this world you live in are genuinely unfair.

You understood each of his words and lectures perfectly, but you still voice a little, “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not being serious.”

“Maybe.”

You blink. Then blink a couple times more. Observe as he closes the boxes and puts them in the fridge with a sigh. And you feel bad, you swear, you do. But that unnecessary turn of events…

“So what, you mean we don’t work for our food, right?” you counter, a hand on your waist. “We might do less physical labour, so that must mean we don’t appreciate what we get, yeah?”

Damn. And what if there’s more to that? What if—

“Or do you think it’s because I’ve always had enough money to not worry?”

Okay. Perhaps a long shot. He didn’t say it, but what if that’s exactly what his thought process was, too?

Your inner panic, invisible on the outside, grows when he doesn’t answer, lips firmly locked as if they didn’t just spew some crisp bullshit. You fold your arms, sucking air through your nose, and then demand, “Apologise.”

And when his eyes lift to yours, you freeze. God, they’re deadly. And his ingenuine laugh even more so as he throws back, “No, you apologise. Especially for assuming things I neither said nor thought of.”

“You were rude. I’m asking you nicely to take it back.”

“As nicely as I cooked for you. World’s in balance again, I guess!”

He throws his hands up, staring at you until he’s passed you by, eyes rolling. His nonchalant, idle movements rile you up more, and you can’t help but participate further in that odd exchange.

“You douchebag,” you call out, shutting the bedroom door as you reach inside, “I’m not a snob. I’d always finish my stuff, you can even ask the cook in my old house. He loved me because I wasn’t a picky eat—”

“Listen,” he interjects again, “I know. It's fine. I’ll sleep,” he points to the bed, “because this tired me out. Just drop it.”

“So you can drop it as you please?”

“Nah, just asking you to rest,” the first word comes out louder than he anticipated, his shrug vexed and vexing. He clears his throat. “And I’m sure you’re tired of this, too.”

You groan.

“And if I want to—”

“It’ll just escalat—”

“Dude, I—”

And once more, he showcases his annoyance when he glares at you from the other side of the bed, shutting you up, blanket already lifted. You anticipate another rude remark, a way of justification or to blurt something he doesn’t mean.

But despite his recent idiocy, you don’t deem him an asshole. Not to you, at least. Which proves right as he takes a breather, one knee hitting the mattress as he finally states—

“Let’s sleep over it, okay?”

The tone still isn’t as peaceful as it could be; you know it’s a tactic to dodge a fight. You might not be on your best domestic side tomorrow yet. But his question is final and his gaze even stricter.

So you reluctantly sigh, eyes still fiery as you breathe, “Fine.”

But it’s not fine. And the turbulent week ahead, filled with chaos for you and peak comedy to others, might just be about to prove it to you.

Tuesday

You chew on your bites until the taste turns bland.

Still distracted from last night’s exchange, you barely register the tart spicy quality of your dinner; a shame because this restaurant is your favourite place to frequent with friends.

Today, you’re toying with your cutlery, catching a glimpse of your grim reflection in the spoon every now and then. Whenever Jungkook’s elbow touches yours, your heart skips a bit, bleeding as much as your eyes want to water.

With how he’s smiling at your friends, appetite never faltering, you could burst into tears — because somewhere inside, you miss him despite the constant proximity.

Perhaps he does, too.

Because you notice when he drifts closer on purpose, casually putting his hand over yours. Seemingly lost in conversations, he rubs his thumb against the soft back of your hand; but when you look at him, you can’t muster a smile just yet.

It’s your ego, your stubbornness. Pieces of you want to stay pissed. You keep your cool, but try to avert your eyes whenever possible.

And when you, obstinate as last night, pull your hand from under his, you register the defeated sigh.

But instead of starting a new topic, he retracts his fingers, putting his arm on his table as he busies his other digits with his meal. When you dare a glance, the pretty curves of his blooming lips tug upwards, listening to Taehyung’s story.

Either hiding the discomfort between you or not feeling it.

Odd, because he’s your constant centre of attention.

“Yeah, I mean. Every job is stressful, you know? But it’s wholesome, too,” Taehyung narrates. You blink the silent pining away, and focus. “Like, one of my patients is an elderly man, a lot weaker than his wife. And she always comes with him, every single time.”

“She just waits for him the entire time?” Jungkook asks.

Next to Taehyung, Eun nods; she’s probably heard the story before.

“I mean, she entertains us, is more like it,” Taehyung explains. “He’s been getting geriatric physiotherapy to regain some strength, so he needs all the motivation he can get. And those two are such… dorks. They bicker all the time.”

You smile. Reminds you of when Jungkook and you first met. Persistent, pointless rivalry.

Perhaps Eun hasn’t heard all of this after all. Because as she cuts her dinner, she asks before stuffing her mouth with a bite, “How so?”

“Like. She’ll tell him to not be a baby and take that last step during gait training.”

From your right, Jungkook’s laugh reverberates like a melody from above, sickeningly sweet and amused. “Sounds like me and you at the gym, doesn’t it?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, flicking away stray hair with his forefinger, “Yeah, only because you can lift weights that’d break my arms.”

Another chuckle from the side. Even you smile a little.

Your man is strong, alright — and you’ve always admired it, experienced it a couple dozen times.

You’ve yet to see him work out at a proper gym; the home workout sessions barely count.

Ugh. The violent heartbeat beneath your chest picks up on pace again, and you take a deep breath to calm it just a little.

“Anyway,” Taehyung continues, “then she’ll tease him how the neighbour downstairs has much more flexible legs than he does and he’ll argue how she should’ve married him… and then she tells him that she would’ve if she didn’t love his old ass so much.”

When you giggle, covering your chewing mouth behind your hand, he adds, “I swear! It’s the most standard old couple banter if I’ve ever seen one. Thought that stuff only happens on TV.”

Eun, still busy with the remnants of her meal, doesn’t look up but asks, “So they joke around like that? They don’t get mad at each other or anything?”

“They act like they do. Not a sliver of jealousy or anger in them, though. Insane… and adorable. I guess when you’re married long enough, that’s how relationships turn out. And they should, too, you know?”

Hmm…

You side-eye Jungkook for just a moment, but don’t say anything.

You don’t know what’s written in your future. No clue whether he’s a permanent presence in it, a firm part of your fate or not; you strongly hope for an eternity.

You want to picture him and you grey and old. Wrinkled hands, adorned with blue veins holding each other. Weak smiles and crinkles around his eyes, hidden behind glasses, ever-present.

If he’s your future, you hope to laugh about such fights one day. Hope to let people wonder whether you’re actually furious with each other, veiling unbridled affection behind snarky remarks.

Just… right now, you can’t laugh about it just yet. You still feel oddly offended by his words last night, and it doesn’t help when tonight seems to drift towards a similar ending.

Because as you ask for the bill at the end, Jungkook still pays. You don’t think about it too hard, letting him do, staying seated to finish your drinks.

But your exhaustion reaches a new, entirely unnecessary peak when he starts cracking his fingers. On any other day, you’d put a hand over his, reminding him not to and move on.

Today, you’re in a bad mood, and your demands come out accordingly piqued.

“Stop it.”

“Hm?” he voices, looking at you, the warm light of the restaurant reflecting in his dark brown eyes.

“This,” you point to his fingers, “stop that.”

“Why?”

“Because you know it makes me cringe. A bit annoying.”

Eun, still unaware of the tension between him and you, shrugs her shoulders, “I know that irks a lot of people, but I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“Because you do it, too,” Taehyung complains; she mocks him with a sly smirk and a quiet, Yeah, yeah. He adds, “I can’t stand it, either.”

You lift an open palm towards him, nodding, “So you understand.”

“I’ve seen you do it, too,” Eun argues with a light push against his shoulder, “multiple times!”

“But not as often as you. You start and do not stop.”

You immediately agree, “He’s just like that, too!”

To which Jungkook interjects, his voice still calm; but you still hear the growing aggravation in his voice when he starts, “Honestly, I—”

“He actually has a couple habits that are just—”

You blow a raspberry.

Your interruption triggers Jungkook. And your words, admittedly not quite the sweetest, don’t sit well with him, either, because a moment later, he’s leaning forwards again. Looking at you directly before he continues his irritating bone-cracking.

You grit your teeth and repeat, “Stop that.”

“What?” he shoots back. You flinch. “A habit you despise so much, yeah? I don’t get the same intense reaction when I do something nice for you.”

So untrue.

Fucking hell. He’s talking about yesterday again.

You exhale through your nose, possibly resembling a bull ready to attack; Taehyung and Eun shrink in front of you, grimacing at each other. You’d laugh if it wasn’t you trapped in that exasperating back and forth of exchanges.

“Oops,” Eun whispers, yet overshadowed by your words as you defend, “That’s not true.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, shrugging a shoulder with an outrageous smirk, “but you never get that angry when I crack them at home.”

“I just don’t say it.”

“Oh? What else do you not say, hm?”

Taehyung dares an attempt, “Guys.”

But you’re too heated, a little stupid, very ridiculous as you spit, “Like, how irritating it is that you smack your lips every other second.”

Jungkook puffs out a breath. Looks to the side, straight into Eun’s direction who sinks a little more. He curls his lower lip in, running his tongue over it, jaw clenched and sharp. If you weren’t so focused on your temper, you’d find it scorching hot.

In a harmless little fight, you’d keep annoying him until he lost it eventually, mounting you and shutting you up in the very tempting Jungkook-esque way he knows.

But not here, not right now.

Instead, he fucks you up further as he sneers, “Right.”

“Or,” you continue, “that you don’t clean up your working space after painting.”

“What?” He furrows his thick eyebrows, ignoring Taehyung’s call of Jungkook’s name. “I mean. You have all your documents scattered on the desk. I might need it, too, y’know?”

“Why don’t you say it then?” you ask, tilting your head with one cocked eyebrow of yours.

“‘Cause I wanna let you work? ‘Cause it’s important for me that you’re able to focus?” He looks away again, tutting; his shoulder moves with his deriding laugh as he mumbles, “The fuck, really.”

Somewhere inside, you feel bad. You know his words are true. But you can’t tell him yet; so you just glare at him.

As silence finally falls upon you, Eun moves towards the table again, glancing between the two of you as she wonders, “What’s wrong with you guys?”

Everything.

“Nothing,” you say.

“…You wanna go?”

You wait. Jungkook doesn’t answer. Looks to the ground. When you don’t respond either, his eyes lift to yours, still big but not as enthusiastic as usual. Intimidating even.

You stay still, so he only voices, “Uh-huh.”

And the couple, enduring your awkward moment, lets you go gladly. You pack up, finishing your drink, and when you leave your table, you notice just how many people were staring at you.

Still are.

You really embarrassed yourself in front of a crowd, huh?

As the daughter of rich parents, owning a huge ass clothing brand, this isn’t something you should’ve done. But you pray and hope that you won’t wake up to a headline, or that journalists won’t interpret your little feud as a reason to break up or some nonsense like that.

Trouble in Heaven, they’d call it. Predictable little cockroaches.

You trudge past the customers with a deep breath in; Jungkook doesn’t seem to care much, because he walks ahead, hands in the pockets of his linen cotton slacks. Doesn’t look around.

Only bids Taehyung and Eun goodbye; tells you to buckle up when the two of you get in your car; curses once or twice when he misses the green light by a second.

And when you’re at home, sighing as the night approaches its end, you shake your head. Unbelievable whatever transpired back at that place. And you thought you were warming up to each other again.

Guess it’s your fault this time.

Which is why you hum when he calls your name, watching you put on your nightwear; bed ready while you still need to take off your makeup.

His question baffles you; more so with the slightly irate tone.

“Will you still give me a good night’s kiss or?”

You roll your eyes. Don’t say anything; grab your skincare products before you get to work.

He sighs once more; you see the shake of his head before you disappear into the bathroom, hear him say, “Whatever.”

But when you come out with a light rosy scent on your skin and jump under your blanket, you still shift towards his slowly drifting body. His arm under his head, eyes closed, lower lip pouting that you target carefully and—

Press the lightest kiss against.

Immediately, you turn around. Imitate his position.

He doesn’t reach out to you as he usually does, pulling you into his arms. But you still feel the petal-soft brush of tender fingers against your arm before the touch retracts again — and eventually, you fall asleep.

WEDNESDAY

The only reason Jungkook accompanied you to the laundromat is because your clothes gathered into a huge mountain. Neglecting your responsibilities at home, you brought two bags, and he insisted on helping you out.

It's late afternoon. Work tired you out, dinner is still pending; you don’t want to be here. And the place is empty; a yawning void. Just you, alone with your tank-top and grey-blue zip up hoodie clad, messy-haired boyfriend.

The retro plastic laundromat seats tired him out, so he’s standing at the far back. His eyes follow the tossing and turning of the clothes in the washing machine, and sometimes, they trail back to you.

And you — you’re sitting in a corner, arms folded, still uncertain whether you should wait for an apology or opt for one yourself.

The distance is childish. You’re way more mature than that.

But your fight is childish, too, and you guess sometimes, even healthy couples fall back into kindergarten routines.

Once the clothes are done and dry, the journey back home approaching, he helps you out. Tramps to you, mutters a little, “Gimme. I’ll take this.”

The bag strap drags his hoodie off his shoulder a little, revealing the flowery tattoo. He doesn’t fix it; lost in thoughts and silent until home. As if he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

In the apartment, he asks, “Dinner or takeout?”

And you, learning and indisputably craving his affection in any shape or form, answer, “We can make dinner.”

“I’ll do it. Get some rest.”

You sigh in relief. There’s solace in your gratitude — today was arduous, much like the preceding days of this week. You bide your time until he’s done, and then help him set the table and clean the kitchen.

The evening passes without any hostility, but ends without many gestures of fondness, too.

THURSDAY

“You don’t need to come, too. I bet you’ve other stuff to do.”

Jungkook adjusts to your steps. He snatched a jacket way too insufficient for the frosty weather, but he won’t hurry if you don’t. Doesn’t stray from your side.

So you walk faster. Then he does, too.

He rubs his nose, shrugs a shoulder and responds, “I’ve nothing much to do today, really.”

“Yeah, but,” you pull at the sleeves of his jacket, urging him to rush through the wind, “you’ll get bored. And I’m a big girl.”

“I know that. But it’ll be fine. Wanna make sure you’re okay, too.”

He nudges your elbow. You can’t pinpoint whether he’s daring an attempt to set things right or is genuinely concerned. Or both. In some way, the tension between you lingers, and you can’t shake off the awkward feeling just yet.

So you only nod, holding off an answer for a moment. Staring ahead, you listen to the soft sounds of the city, blinded by headlights soon passing you by. A bit longer and the first snow will fall.

The consoling feeling of winter days draws closer, feels warm despite the frigid wind. Hot chocolatesque. There’s just something about wool shawls and warm jackets and old, animated Christmas movies.

One thing you miss about living in your parents’ big, fancy house in your very old neighbourhood is the chimney. The soft yellow and orange of the crackling fire, melting the cold over your skin.

Sometimes you’d sit on the fleecy white carpet, protected by a thick, warm turtleneck sweater, watching the dancing flames.

You wonder again — if Jungkook and you are truly written in the stars as one, will you move into a bigger place one day? Save money and expand the comfort of the current apartment, investing in even more soothing walls with a couple little additions.

Not the lush, exaggerated luxury you grew up with. Not necessarily anything snobby.

But casual, domestic things, like a fire side you can sit in front of, drinking tea, slow dancing and giggling in the dark. Lit by the chimney fire; familiarity.

You sigh.

“It’s been long since I went to the dentist, too,” Jungkook then says, and you hum. That’s sudden.

“You should go then.��

“Yeah,” he says, eyes darting from your face to your hands. You unintentionally bury them in the pockets of your jacket the moment he reaches out for you; and when he understands that you didn’t notice, he curls his fingers into fists. “Maybe I can get an appointment now? Do they take walk-ins?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I don’t know.” Then, upon realisation, you laugh a little and say, “I’m not going to the dentist.”

“What?”

“What?” You stare back with eyes as big as his. “Optometrist, Koo.”

His raised eyelids are nothing new. He’s attentive when it comes to you; recognises, notices and remembers every little thing. But you guess he truly has been tired, too.

And you feel bad for not considering it as much as he considered it. The reason he cooked for you in the first place, right?

You press your lips into a line, stare down to a puddle on the ground; an aftermath of the rain.

“Oh,” he makes, “why did I think we were going to— Sorry. My bad.”

In actuality, you did wonder if he knew. He didn’t ask questions when you told him you were leaving; simply announced he was going with. You were pulling socks over your ankles as his rushing form scurried across the room.

You guessed he’d figured it out. But the fact that he was ready to accompany you without a certain clue where you were heading makes you a little giddy.

Clearing your throat, you clarify, “No worries. It’s about that pain in my eyes. Remember?”

You wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t. Preceding your fight by perhaps a couple minutes, you don’t think the tiny statement still holds any relevance to him anymore.

Right?

Wrong.

“Yeah,” he answers, “yeah, of course. You thought it was an infection.”

“Mhm,” you hum, ignoring the butterfly wing slamming against your insides, “I’m so sure it’s an infection.” You click your tongue. “Itch first, and now it gives me migraines.”

“Yeah, you told me… But. It’s nothing serious, I just know.”

You look at his sculpted side profile.

You know him. Jungkook doesn’t actually know, of course — that’s not why he’s saying that he does.

But because hope is better than pure uncertainty; and he likes trying to manifest. He believes in little miracles like this. Knocks on wood a lot, tries not to voice potential disasters in case they might actually roll around.

So you take the reassurance. Walk to the clinic in silence. Attempt more small talk in the waiting room until they drench your corneas in those odd, blinding eye drops, dilating your pupils.

The brief, quick tests follow; the assistant is young and gentle, and you try your best to be a good patient. She seems to enjoy your temporarily formal behaviour, perfected in the years you grew to be a reputable heir.

You drop it once you’re in the waiting room again, awaiting the final consultation and results.

Jungkook is a restless companion. No matter how irritating, you’re used to the constant swaying and the movements of his legs. One might think he is anxious for you, eyes locking on the head doc’s office door every now and then.

Yet, he wonders, “Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” you repeat, breathing out a tiny, amused laugh. “Nah. He’s really nice. And it’s just some eye stuff.”

“Well, eyes are important.”

The words come out quickly, but the last syllable dies gradually.

You smile.

Jungkook sometimes reminisces about a time when he’d hide from relatives or eat lunch at the back of class back in elementary school. He tires out the term introvertness, and you repeatedly retort with a certain ambivertness.

At times, he’s loud, flirty, annoying and confident — gives you a hard time believing that he ever averted a girl’s gaze or hid behind his cousins.

But then… there are moments when you see it.

Like now.

The puffy cheeks, the youthful pout, the big, big eyes flashing to the ground. Unsure what to say, unsure what you’re thinking of him.

Until he gulps, keeping his voice quiet and low as he continues, “Have you ever had a private optometrist?”

Huh. Not a question you expected. You guess starting the week with a discussion about wealth makes him think of such things these days.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting in your seat. You can still not see him clearly; his features are blurry, and you squint. “When I was younger. Big, bright places and top notch equipment.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I mean… It's not like usually used equipment, like here, is any worse than theirs. Also, same reason as why I went to a public college. Normalcy, I guess.”

“Odd.”

“…Why?”

“Because,” he draws a sharp breath, staring ahead. “Despite all the normalcy, you’re as extraordinary as can get. Money or not.”

A heartbeat passes. Among the sounds of the quiet chatter around you and the ads in the TV at lowest volume, your breath mingles with the hushed noises like a whisper.

His slowly blinking eyes are genuine, your reflection in his dark brown orbs clear. White dots sparkle like constellations in the sky, bright and plenty. It’s nice that they remind you of the sentimentality in his heart after every single serious or dumb, big or small fight.

For a moment, you keep looking. Your fingers twitch, urging to reach out, but as they start moving off your knee, you hear a call of your name.

Jungkook leans back, clearing his throat, smiles at you as you get to your feet and meet the doctor’s stare, kindly gesturing inside the examination room.

A couple more tests, a friendly conversation, more orders from his side before he gives you a diagnosis and a prescription.

And when you head out, Jungkook’s still sitting right where you left him. One leg restless again, leaning forwards, arms on his thighs and hands intertwined. His head is hanging between his shoulders; even from afar, you see his lashes move, eyes slowly blinking.

You can’t quite explain it, but you love this point of view — when you can see his parted lips, the lower one pillowy, partly hidden behind his button nose. Cheeks round. You truly do love this watching-from-above-angle.

Even though it clearly suggests he’s bored out of his mind. Beyond done with this place, but still here, waiting for you.

You clutch the strap of your bag again, sighing, and then move towards him with light steps. The back of your fingers reaches out then, brushing against his temple a tiny moment before he detects your shoes and looks up.

“Oh. That was fast,” he says; his eyes are drooping. He had a long morning in the attic. “What did he say?”

He gets off the seat, moving his stiff neck and cracking it a little, hand flashing up to his shoulder. You explain, “I need eye drops. Two to three times a day.”

“Ah. Then we could get them right now.”

You nod, allowing a little smile, telling him as you head out, “My eyes are okay, though. Somehow, my vision has improved, too.”

Jungkook’s lips form an excited Oh, but when he sees your expression, he says, “But you seem bummed about it.”

Ah. Well.

You feel ungrateful thinking that way, but…

“In some way?” you admit. “I’d rather have an infection that can be fixed with antibiotics and won’t come back so easily instead of… you know. Having to constantly rely on eye drops. It just sounds so permanent.”

Another deep sigh; you’re exhausted as well. “And I’ll have to remember to use them.”

“Hmm,” he voices, holding the door open for you. He zips his jacket close as you step out; an immediate breath cloud forming when he exhales. “Set an alarm, yeah?”

“Yeah. Just knowing myself…”

“I’ll remind you then.”

The suggestion is immediate, albeit accompanied by a seemingly nonchalant shrug of his shoulder; jacket’s sleeves adorably pulled over his hands.

“Once in the morning. You set an alarm for lunch and then I remind you again when you take your birth control pill at night. Yeah?”

The bitter feeling of the fight vanishes a little; you try to ignore the residual awkwardness, apologies probably still due. But right now, your conversation follows a different path, so you settle on a soft, little, “Thank you, Kook.”

He always does that. Remind you of your meds.

Your vitamins, your pills, that one nose spray hydrating your nose flora to prevent your mucosa from drying out or whatever your ENT doc told you. He did last night, too.

He always does — even if it means forgetting about his own responsibilities.

You blink a couple times, rubbing your eyelids before you admit, “Still hurts. Can barely see… and the streetlamps are so bright?”

“Lemme look.”

He stops in his tracks and you follow; his hand catches your wrist, pulling your fingers away from your eyes, and you turn to him slowly. You’re still attempting to clear your vision, so he orders, “Stop blinking.”

And once you do, he moves in. Takes your face in his already warm hands, staring, squinting, humming. He looks focused, and you raise your eyebrows, waiting for a conclusion until he finally mutters, “Damn.”

“What?”

He seems impressed. Looks a bit longer. You repeat, “What? Are they red? Swollen or something?”

“Nah,” he lets your face go, already stepping back as if dodging your proximity. “But,” he starts; you stare like a puppy, only breaking when he adds, “they’re pretty as fuck.”

Your playful punch rises as if on instinct.

One part of your relationship that never changed was your bicker, starting with annoyance and morphing into frisky, flirty remarks. You consider it the foundation of what makes the two of you a unit.

You grit your teeth, but can’t bite back the smile.

“Dude,” you scold, and he covers his arm instinctively, evading the punch looming over him.

But you don’t deliver it after all, dropping your hand, shaking your head instead. You say, “If you hadn’t helped me survive today, I’d—”

You steer towards him, attempting another scare, and he plays along with a flinch just before he starts laughing again. Hums and nods emphasise his words when he agrees, “You survived like a true champ. A big girl, you said, right?”

“Sure am.”

“Mhm. …My big girl?”

“Gross. Shut up.”

The atmosphere will stay odd for a while. That’s okay, you guess. At least it allows for a bit of amusement, hard to hide as you smile a little, bite your lip.

You lower your head, veiling your beam behind your hair, but you know he sees. Matches your smile — perhaps even a bit brighter than your own.

FRIDAY

The fast approaching weekend usually eases a week’s tension. But considering the mounting workload you tackled today and the endless Saturday you’ll be dealing with very soon, your muscles don’t relax just yet.

Imprisoned behind the bars of work, your thoughts circle around the schedule for tomorrow. In that sense, you come home late and can’t quite bother with the stress that spread throughout the first half of the week.

Jungkook already scarfed down tonight’s dinner, comfortably laying in bed and balancing the laptop on his stomach. From the sound of it, he’s watching videos of various genres.

Sitting on the living room couch and indulging in a short story for just a bit, you hear the enthusiastic voices of chefs rattling down recipes every now and then. It’s a hobby of his, but you can’t help but feel bad.

He studies those YouTube videos to improve his cooking skills, and you, ungratefully, leave the rest of his effort in the goddamn fridge. You sigh.

If you had the energy and will to talk it out, you’d do it now. You couldn’t all day.

He was still asleep when you left, and after work, you went to a brief dinner with a coworker to dash through details for tomorrow. Looking at the plan, you hope for at least a sliver of fun amidst the photoshoot chaos.

When you returned home, Jungkook was gaming right where you’re sitting now. You showered, only to find him back in the bedroom, with his eyes glued to said laptop. And now, as you approach the bed to end the night, he walks past you with falling eyelids.

He rubs them with the back of his tattooed hand, a tired pout on his face contradicting the seemingly badass image that the ink usually gives him. Hard shell, soft core and all.

“Be right ba—,” Jungkook’s hazy voice informs, last syllable broken by a yawn. “Go to bed, okay?”

His palm moves across your upper arm as he passes you by, and you nod, steering towards the inviting, warm mattress. Its surface melts with your body when you drop. God, you’re exhausted; can barely think.

You don’t think it’ll take you particularly long to drift away; and just when your consciousness slips, you feel an arm around you.

A soft hug, enveloping you. He drops his face to yours, lips gently pressing against your cheek for a moment before he adjusts the blanket over the two of you.

A current of warmth courses through your veins, and you draw a deep, long breath of affection when he cuddles into you. He must be thinking you’re asleep but slowly falling out of dreams, because he pulls you in and rubs your arm.

An effective tactic he usually wields to help you fall asleep.

He puts a leg gently over yours, his body so close to yours that you feel bits of the combustion of your heart.

Because…

Despite your stupid feud, you’re kind of happy that he’s joined you under the thin blanket, pressing more featherlight kisses against your scalp. Sighs against it.

And you can’t withhold the smile when he brushes over your clothed tummy and whispers, “My feisty little girl.”

SATURDAY

You remember to unclench your jaw.

The stress hardens your muscles. Your limbs are stiff, eyes unblinking until they dry out. Fingers wrapped around your phone, you hold the device firmly, shutting out the telling vibrations of notifications.

This cannot be.

There are a hundred fires burning around you. Erupted chaos causes panic, and in the middle of it are you, clueless and vexed beyond measure.

It’s one thing cancelling a shoot a couple days before it takes place — and another thing to call sick at the very last moment. You didn’t think the model would ditch you like this… but now that he has, you can’t figure out how to replace the missing piece of the shoot.

Your troubled co-workers call out a dozen names, but you don’t say a word, gazing around with a crease between your eyebrows.

This whole thing needs to be out in the open by Friday, and the photographers and editors need time. So, postponing this to Monday and the release of the ads to another weekend won’t work, right?

No.

You’re at the headquarters of this brand. And you’re one of the organisers of this shoot and project. Every single shop will need to postpone if you do.

Unprofessional. Goes against the schedule.

The complaints are still on full blast when you see a calm movement from the corner of your eye. You move your head to the left, peeking through the glass door, and on the other side awaits—

A wide-eyed man, staring inside, observing the tumult like he’s stepped into the jungle. He’s wearing a white shirt, tucked into jeans, long bangs hanging into his eyes and enhancing the sweet gaze so wonderfully.

Pieces of your stress melts — but you still can’t figure out why he’s standing there.

You walk to the door automatically, throwing a tiny smile when he detects you among the staff. A big hand waves in tiny, and you open to let him in.

“Hey,” you greet, pushing back to where you stood before. He follows. “What are you doing here?”

As you come to a stand, he puts a hand on your waist lightly, drawing close to press a kiss to your temple. Then, he responds, “Picking you up?”

“Wh—”

Oh. Shit.

You were going to go out and celebrate the end of the stressful week. He’d suggested it last weekend because he already knew how hectic today would be.

Ughhhh.

You’re terrible.

Jungkook realises your forgetfulness the moment your expression changes into a guilty one. His curious, innocent look drops with his eyebrows, and he sighs when you say, “I’m sorry, Kook.”

When he stares down at his shoes, you feel a wave of shame; the noise around you fades for just a second as he half sullenly, half disappointedly asks, “Really?”

“I swear… It’s not my fault.”

It’s not an excuse; not a lie.

He looks disheartened; knowing him, stupid argument or not, he was probably looking forward to this. Fuck, you feel bad.

Despite his obvious drop in mood, he doesn’t say anything much. Instead, he nods and assures, “It’s fine. What happened?”

You look around again. From afar, you see a coworker approach. She looks hopeful and you take the crumbs, but you still explain, “Everything should be done by now. We got most of the pictures, but… one of the guys bailed on us.”

“Shit, really? What now?”

You shrug your shoulders, once again racking your brain for a solution. People here are counting on you, but it’s not you who brings the very first somewhat reasonable suggestion of today.

Only somewhat reasonable, though.

Because the coworker approaching ogles at Jungkook like a pirate at a treasure, pupils big and wondering as she suddenly says, “Hold. Did you come up with that?”

You blink.

Then ask, “What?”

“You called him here?”

“What?” you repeat, a confused, little parrott.

She rolls her eyes, “He,” she points at Jungkook with a thumb, “is not allowed in here. Usually. So I assumed you called him as a replacement.” She tilts her head. “And he’s freaking perfect!”

Per—

What? No, no, no. That’s absolutely nothing you planned or permitted.

“No?” Instinctively, you take a step to the side, right in front of his broad shoulders as if to protect him from harm. You argue, “He’s not a model. He’s an artist.”

From behind, you hear, “I’m just an artist.”

“Yeah, but,” she throws back, “you’re art, too. I won’t lie.”

Another step back until your back almost touches his chest. His fingertips graze your hip, as a warning before you stumble over his feet. You can imagine the subtle rosy dust on his cheek; he’s fond of compliments.

As everyone is, you suppose. But.

“Hey, careful,” you tell her, disguising it as a joke, but feeling the lightest burn in your stomach when he laughs at her words.

She raises her pretty lips to a prettier smile, nodding in reassurance as she promises, “Yes, I know he’s taken.”

Another quiet chuckle from behind you, and you cock an eyebrow before he changes the topic and admits, “Seriously, I’m not a model at all and barely know what these things are like…”

To which she waves off his concerns and explains, “Oh, you just need to look good. We’d put some make up and clothes on you, a few pics and we’re done.”

Sounds easy enough. A bit like an insult to actual models, kind of putting those to shame who ran across stages for years to study, internalise and perfect their movements.

But you don’t correct her because you’re desperate, too. And right now, this sounds the easiest.

Still, he murmurs, “I’m not sure.”

“I understand if not,” she says. Her tone changes, fragments of frustration in it. “It’s just that we’re running out of options.”

Once more, you play out the upcoming week mentally. Postponing the last shoot. Postponing the release. Postponing the seasonal launch.

None of this is your fault, but you’d still be the one to get all the wary looks.

As if on cue, Jungkook squeezes your hip, and you look at him with worry painted across your face. You know he sees it immediately, but he still asks, “Is it that bad?”

You nibble at your lip, putting a hand over his as you say, “Yeah. We do need someone.”

“Is that allowed? Can I just replace a guy?”

“I’m technically the boss here, so you’d just need my permission,” you take a breath and then click your tongue, “I mean, usually we’d just reschedule, but we don’t have the time and those shoots already take hours. And in your case, we’d do all the paperwork, contract stuff later.”

“Would it help you?”

He’s considerate. Even in a stressful moment like this, the gentle tone, the deep care makes you weak. The answer’s already clear, but you still tell him, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Again, it… might take up to two hours or so.”

“But it’d help you, babe, wouldn’t it? Unless you don’t want me to. Then I won’t.”

You don’t have a single problem with this; in fact, you’d be happy to put him in front of a camera. His genuine thoughtfulness liquefies you — you’re a puddle at this point.

“Oh, I… Jungko—”

Juri intrudes, “I’m sorry,” carefully, she inches closer, nodding over her shoulder, “Just wanna say that we have a lot of designers in our team. They do logos and make the posters and all. Maybe, if they saw you — because the country already knows you as her artistic man from newspapers — they could teach you some digital art stuff.”

“I…” Jungkook starts. He’s probably thinking the same — which he confirms when he adds, “I’m not sure how me modelling for you might relate to artistic stuff. But I already know a lot about digital art.”

Yeah, exactly. Of course he does; what else did he wade through college for throughout these years?

“But,” she lifts a finger, infinite force in one word already, “have you ever tried expensive equipment and all?”

Oh oh. You feel bad.

Is that the group of society you represent? Maybe you guys are a little pretentious after all, dealing and seducing with money.

But he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t dare to challenge her when he steps next to you and says, “I can do it, but not for that digital art offer.” He puts a hand on your back, rubbing lightly and briefly, “For her.”

You fold your arms under your chest; less to show dominance, but more to press against the butterflies. There’s a type of nausea falling in love elicits, deep in your stomach where everything appears so surreal and beautiful that it makes you oddly sick.

The first time your pupils took on their heart shape was the first moment Jungkook practised that effect on you; made you realise what inevitable emotions he was pulling you into.

That effect has not faltered; your guts still twist.

At least, for a couple minutes.

Because the second your coworker-vultures attack him and drag him to the back room, something changes. Nervousness, you guess. You know the clothes that are awaiting him, but stepping out of makeup and into the spotlight leaves you gasping for air.

From afar, he’s leering at you.

Wearing a snow white shirt, tucked into his pants, priorly tousled hair still messy but styled in curls. Yes, you might know your collection — but you didn’t think it’d fit him like second skin.

Why did you doubt it, though? Jungkook could wear a trash bag and still compete against Adonis.

For a moment, he stands still, entangling his fingers, looking around. Then, he’s smiling in uncertainty, awkwardly putting his hands on his tiny waist, waiting for directions.

Juri tip-toes towards you, as if you’re filming a scene in a drama. She pulls the clipboard to her chest, one digit pointing to your struggling man before she says, “He’s adorable.”

You nod. “I wonder how he’ll do.”

“Well, yeah,” she murmurs, half distracted; but then she averts her eyes from him, looking from your nervous lips up to your furrowed eyebrows before she assures, “Worst case scenario, we’ll postpone. End of story. At least we tried.”

“Hmm… Well, let’s hope it won’t be that case.”

Which, you soon realise, it certainly isn’t.

A couple professional suggestions by the director and Jungkook gets into position. The initial movements of his hands and body are a little strange and awkward, and you can’t help but want to pull him from this chaos and wrap him in a fuzzy blanket.

But the seemingly feigned adorable stance soon shifts into something unexpectedly dangerous when he raises his chin. Thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, he relaxes his body, lips suddenly forming a tempting, slight pout.

He doesn’t usually look like that…

“Wow,” you whisper, faintly registering Juri’s fascinated nod from the side.

This is still a harmless pose, you think; one the director dared him to do. But you’re surprised by the sudden confidence, the way Jungkook doesn’t fumble or stutter or question anything.

Some of his softness shines through the moment the photographer gives a thumbs up, a tattooed hand cracking the fingers of the others. Doe eyes back, he leans forwards as if he could peek at the pictures like that, asking cautiously, “That okay?”

He looks different. Why does he look different?

“That was great! Perfect start. I promise the rest is just as easy,” the team encourages him, asking him to monitor the pictures they just took.

Jungkook walks to the strangers in slow steps, chest behind the tight, white top heaving once. On his way, he looks up to you instinctively, throwing the same thumbs up at you with a questioning gaze.

And you, still baffled, smile.

Watch as he converses with the people, his grin wide when he likes what he sees — an instant confidence boost, though you still see the nervousness in his stance. Where was any of it when they clicked the photos?

As if a demon possessed him for just a minute. Dual and dangerous.

Then again, he’s not very different in your daily life. A celestial soul on some days, catering to your every whim, never letting your feet touch the ground.

And a beast on others, inhaling your sounds like a starving incubus, never heaving your body off the mattress.

The duality doesn’t disappear with this very first outfit.

When some music starts playing and they tell him to move freely, filming the sequences for the ads, your eyeballs nearly fall out of your eyes. And you finally realise why he looks so different now.

Because the moment his thumb touches his lower lip, mimicking a wiping motion (much like he does after kissing you sometimes), you see the silver-plated jewellery glimmering from all the way from the set.

Lip ring.

Whose idea…

“What did you do back there?” you ask, near-panicking, your heart dropping into your panties.

Juri flinches, asking, “What?”

“Is that a lip ring? You gave him a—”

You puff out a breath; it’s immensely difficult to be mad at him like this. He’s been looking…

“Shouldn’t we have?” her tiny voice asks; her body shrinks a little.

“I mean. I just. It wasn’t planned.”

“Yeah, but look how amazing he looks.”

You’re seeing it, alright.

The subtle touches, the light tugging at his shirt. Movements just right. He looks all serious, like a beast, hotter than motherfucking hell. Transports your saliva into your windpipe with each look he sports.

Until you actually feel yourself choking and gagging once he leaves and comes back for the next shoot twenty minutes later.

Because why on Earth did they omit the shirt under the grey blazer?

You’re close to dashing to costume and makeup, confronting them to ask why they chose to toy with your sanity like this. Because… the lip ring is still there. His hair is suddenly slicked back. Fingers adorned with rings.

And he looks so goddamn good.

Maybe it’s your fault. You told them you trusted them, and that they were supposed to do as they pleased. And they are… they so are.

All of him, like a strong magnet, pulls you in, but you keep your feet firmly on your spot, cementing yourself in place. There’s something incredibly attractive about the way he presents himself — new, talented.

You’re fidgety, a sexually frustrated observer when he touches his jacket, pulling it open just a little. The inked hand is veiny; you see it from here, too. The light gesture allows glimpses of his chest.

Small, perked, brown nipples. Lines and ripples of his abs firm. Ending in his V-line, hidden behind the peeking underwear and blue, baggy jeans.

Heavy chains are already menacing when he shuts his eyelids and parts his lips. Worse when he leans forwards, hazy eyes staring into the camera as if he’s about to devour the camerawoman.

Jeon Jungkook is a hazardous danger to society. The world will want him — and he’ll only want you.

Fuck.

You’re drooling. Drowning in your own puddle. Crossing your legs.

And when they tell him to sit, ordering to open the button of his jeans and push it down his hips just a bit, the little yous in your brain wreak havoc.

A fire starts in the organised office of your mind, red sirens blaring, and you look at Juri as you ask, “Why is he naked?! Why’s the blazer off his shoulder?!!”

“Because,” she defends, hiding behind the clipboard; it’s not her fault. That’s what the other model would’ve done, too. “Underwear ads!”

You’re aware. You just didn’t think it’d be Jungkook ending up in this position. Perhaps you didn’t think it through; didn’t know what it’d do to you.

But his effect pools in your lower stomach; so intense, you might cry.

“What the fuck,” you mumble when he takes the jacket off, sitting up and improvising all of a sudden. A hand covers his mouth, the blazer thrown over his shoulder. “What’s the point of holding it? He’s not even wearing it.”

“Because,” she starts again, “we’re focusing on the underwear.” Where’s the focus on the underwear? You can barely see it. Are people plotting against you? “It’s okay.” She pats your shoulder. “No one’s gonna touch him, love.”

You bite your lip. You know.

You aren’t distressed because you’re mad. But because knowing that everybody will crave him and nobody will get him turns you on more.

The fact that you’re the only one he’ll look at with those starry eyes; with the hunger in his gaze. The only one he’ll press into your bed, lips close to your ears, whispering endearments and filthy, little promises.

This man wants you, and you can barely handle that truth.

New thoughts and ideas form in your mind, too wild and desperate to be occurring right in this moment. So you mentally whoosh them away, holding on for the rest of the neverending shoot until a round of genuine applause sounds around the big set.

God. Okay. Hours of torture later, and he’s done.

A shy bow. No. This monster might convince anyone else, but you know he’s not as innocent as he gives himself.

He jogs over to you, says quietly enough for only you to hear, “Don’t tell them, but that was great.” You can imagine. He backs away, looks down to his defined abs, “I need to change. And then we can head home, they said.”

You blink, perplexed and still out of words. Which he struggles to interpret, looking over his shoulder and then back to you. Unsure, he adds, “Unless you need to wrap things up.”

When a random shout echoes through the room, you awake, inhaling deeply before you tell him, “No, I. I mean, yeah, we’ll wrap things up, but that shouldn’t take too long. Should be mostly done when you are.”

He nods. Waves, and then steers towards the others, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. Short convos. Then, to the back room.

You’re too out of your mind and tired to chat much with staff. You go through the next steps, talk about waiting for the editor to be done with the photos, list the leftover things on your to-do list before the winter launch.

And that’s it. You meet Jungkook at the exit to the hallway, relieved when the end of the day approaches. On your way back home, you converse lightly, though he stops when you yawn one too many times.

He lets you rest as you pass shops and traffic lights, and holds your hand when you get off the vehicle. Drags you up the stairs; the climb is arduous. And then allows you to get ready for your slumber in peace.

The second the back of your head collides with the cold pillow, your eyes drop shut. The world spins behind your tired eyelids, adjusting to the darkness and the silence.

A sigh of relief pushes out of your mouth; a profound sense of tranquillity calms your lit nerves. Jungkook, next to you, seems just as exhausted because the yawn as soon as he slips under the covers is long and tear-inducing.

He’s blinking away the dampness of fatigue when you look over to him; you haven’t talked much since you arrived home, but Jungkook uses the moment to say, “I had a lot more fun than I expected to have.”

You’re so incredibly thankful for his last-minute rescue. But you can’t help but think of the muscles and expressions an hour prior. The seductive gaze, the lip accessory, the ring-clad fingers.

Perhaps it’s because of the time of the month, but you feel vexed by how affected you feel.

You control your tone, though the word still sounds monotone when you say, “Good.”

Catching upon it immediately, he shifts slowly, sniffling and head propping up on his hand before he asks, “Did you not like it?”

“Oh no, I mean,” you start, “you were amazing. I just didn’t know they’d send you out naked for the world to see. Thought the plan was to close a couple buttons.”

“The stylists told me. I think it was a spontaneous change because—”

You glance at him when he hesitates. A sly smile spreads across his features, just a little guilty yet amused as he watches your curiosity grow.

“What?” you ask.

“Nevermind.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“It’s nothing!” he exclaims. “We just thought it’d look cool. I thought you’d like it, too, actually.”

You did. That’s the issue. You liked it enough for it to burn into your mind, and now you can’t shake the image anymore.

No matter how many times you’ve seen him butt naked, buried inside you without a gap between your skin — something about his confidence and eyes stirred an unknown level of desire in you.

But you can’t tell him. Because the thing you want won’t be possible right now. You keep your thoughts veiled.

Instead, you unleash your annoyance because God, you hate him for being so hot.

“Right,” is all you say.

“Hey, don’t worry. Even if they ask, I’m not doing this again.”

“Might make you famous, though,” you mumble.

He snorts, fingers sneaking to your tummy, “So what? That’s not my profession. I didn’t study to become a model. Will work on my actual efforts.”

“Okay.”

The single word forces a sigh out of him, and he shakes his head, tapping his fingers against your stomach as he whispers your name thrice. Like he’s scolding you.

And then, “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you spit without hesitation, “of whom?”

You’re not. And you know that just for the moment, he won’t believe you. Which is fine. You’ll tell him the truth once your period’s over for the month.

“Of people who might see me and like what they see.”

Okay. Jerk.

At this point, he is doing it on purpose. You see it in the cocky smile and the jesting tone and the way his fingertips draw circles over your shirt, itching to sneak underneath the fabric.

You know him.

He’s so annoying.

“No,” you repeat.

“You sure? Huh?” Fuck, not that sulky voice. You close your eyes, but he raises your chin, making your head move. “Look at me, angel.”

“Hmm?”

“You said no, but you do look a little fiery,” he tells you. Yeah, if he knew that the real reason doesn’t lie in envy or whatever the world thinks of him. “What? My girl is jealous of people I won’t even perceive?”

No.

But she does feel the tickling, flattering lust pooling in her lower stomach, Jeon, thank you very much.

“Jungkook,” you start, although breathier when he moves closer, towards your neck. “Don’t be annoying.”

Which triggers a slightly mocking tone; he tuts before he says, “Baby bails on our date today. Will fight me in a restaurant. And then I’m annoying?”

Your answer is immediate and as shameless as can be.

“Yes.”

And it makes him laugh. Hot and sudden against your skin, his breath makes you shiver more than the relentless cold outside ever could.

“Not gonna lie,” he begins, “that brat behaviour isn’t too terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up, you just—”

He just what? You don’t know. Your sentence floats between you when his nose raises your chin, freeing the path to your neck before he’s nuzzling it slowly.

You feel goosebumps at the back of your neck, hair standing up, tingles across your body where you didn’t deem them possible. Under the blanket, your legs shift, and he hurries to move one of his between yours.

Hand still on your shirt, he places a barely-there, soft kiss to your neck; his fine tresses tickle your face and you crumble.

You have long forgotten your unfinished sentence, but he hasn’t. Asks, “What?”

You bury your nails into his arm, intrigued by the little hiss followed by a subtle laugh. Growing in volume when you say, “I kinda hate you right now.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, stretching the second word, “I hate you, too. Absolutely loathe you.”

You silence. Hold onto him when he French kisses between your neck and shoulder. And then breathe, “Then go away.”

“Mhh. Maybe I should.”

“Maybe…”

And then, out of the blue, his teeth dig into your neck like a gentle vampire, stopping immediately when you wince desperately. A hot tongue soothes the bite, a strong hand pushing you down by your shoulder again when your body lifts off the bed just a bit.

He keeps you in place, moving to your jaw. And when you whimper in lust and want, navigating his leg closer to your core, he curses, “Fucking hell, babe.”

Then, he’s inhaling, fingers wandering from your shoulder to your wrist as lips finally clash.

His body moves half onto yours, slowly gauging your reaction to the kiss as if he’s still expecting the burst of cumulated emotions. But when you give into his gesture, granting him your tongue, his face moves further against yours.

Undecided fingers let your wrist go, getting ahold of a patch of your hair. You hold his arms again until you wrap yours around him, fingers on the nape of his neck as you pull him in.

You tilt your heads in unison, deepening the kiss, drinking him up. Let him open your lips with his, keeping them like that, tips of your tongues playing with each other.

His touch drops to your waist and down to your pyjamas, pushing them down a little, grazing your panties. But then, his teasing palm floats up again and settles over one of your tits, squeezing once and drawing a telling moan out of you.

No bra.

He loves your little habits. You live through them casually, never noticing how badly they empty his mind.

Seems your head is blanking just as much at his touches; because you look delirious, lost, breathing in and out heavily. Jungkook basks in the expression, pushing a hand to your neck.

And only when he presses in gently, trapping you in place, do you seem to wake.

Eyes shoot open, and you inhale deeply, as if saved from drowning; remember every bit of today. The lines of his abs. The lip ring. The jewellery on his fingers.

You could ask for him to go on, to wreck you thoroughly. But of all arguments stopping you from doing so, there’s one damn reason that asks to prevent the mess.

Fucking period. Would create a literal bloody chaos. And you’re exhausted.

The thing is — if you asked him, you know he’d give it to you.

He’s reckless and careless. But you can’t risk the state of your sheets and the state of your mind. You have more work to do tomorrow; also, if you continued now, you’d be tired and immobile tomorrow, you know — and you need to be awake for this.

Fully in your senses.

Ugh. Fuck.

And the last damn day of the red waterfall, too. Thinking about it, perhaps that’s the reason for your agitation this week.

In hindsight, you know you’re never bitchy like that — he didn’t give you the nickname of an angel for nothing, right? Fuck PMS. Fuck mood swings.

Your poor boy, enduring the wrath of it.

But maybe you need to act pissed just a bit longer because—

“What?” he asks.

It’s not the time. So you stop him, pushing him away lightly. Shake your head, calling forth a crease between your eyebrows, turning away just a bit.

He falls back, once again keeping his upper body up by his arm. Inquires, “I— are you still mad?”

Truthfully, you answer flatly, “I’m on my period.”

“So?” he answers, laughing until he sees your lips, pressed into a serious line. “I’m not scared of some blood.”

You knew it. He’d give in if you told him to.

But what you want can’t be received during this time of the month. What you want requires unhinged chaos, carelessness, breathlessness. Craze of many minutes, hours.

You want more than a short, cautious session that asks you to peek at the sheets and the towel you’d get every now and then. You want to fucking lose yourself in hi—

“Let’s not,” you answer, your tone nonchalant, “Just. Let’s go to sleep, alright?”

He murmurs your name, trying again; but when you turn on your belly, giving a last sign to end the night, you hear him groan quietly.

You grimace when his head falls onto the pillow with an angry thump, movements under the blanket agitated as he scolds, “My God. Alright. You wanna be pissed for an entire week, then be pissed. I can’t do more than that.”

Oof.

If he only knew. And something in you tells you that he will very soon.

SUNDAY

Too lazy to work through the preparation process in the kitchen, Jungkook and you quietly decide to spend lunch outside.

The café nearby is a place you’ve wanted to visit for quite some time now. And despite the flaky, dry sandwiches they served, you’re glad time passed quickly, the awkward conversations between you coming to an end.

When you return from the bathroom, the sky above looks grey. Desolate. The weather forecast predicted a surprisingly pleasant late fall day, but the approaching rain is obvious. Which, you anticipated more than the weather forecast did, really.

That’s why an umbrella is leaning against the leg of the table, and you grab it as you watch Jungkook fumble with his wallet, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He gulps down the last sip of his Matcha Latte, dimples above the corner of his lips as he smacks the taste away. Then, he gets to his feet, asks, “Ready to go?”

Absent-mindedly, you nod, glancing to the sky and then back to him again. He looks sweet and domestic; but you can’t quite take him seriously. Not necessarily because of the fight anymore.

It’s been far too many days to still dwell.

But because of the damn lip ring, the open jacket, the gelled back hair. His destructive expressions. Like he could devour you whole.

Jungkook doesn’t stay angry for a long time, you’ve noticed. He always tells you how his temper used to be worse as a teenager, but how he’s learned to control himself.

Agonies of childhood, relationships and friendships taught him patience. And you notice. You truly notice.

Because he hands you your purse sweetly, immediately stretching his palm towards you. A slight smile spreads across his face, and you respond with a weak one of yours. Take his hand and let him lead you home.

You’ll walk the short distance; it shouldn’t take longer than seven or eight minutes.

And as you approach home, the hand holding yours mimics the motions of the one gripping the umbrella — he brings both arms into swing, somewhat euphoric but casual when he says, “The food was so dry there.”

It’s odd, talking to him like that after several days again. But you nod slowly, and agree, “I know. But at least we know where not to go anymore.”

“Yeah. But I mean, great beverages.”

“The milkshake, too.”

He tugs you a little closer, elbows soon touching, “I still think you should’ve gotten something warmer. You get a cold fast,” he looks up with squinted eyes, “and it’s already chilly today.”

You squeeze his hand as a thank you; Jungkook cares for you in little, subtle ways, and you’d lie if you said you didn’t think of it every now and then. You answer, “I feel fine, though.”

“Okay. Hope that stays.”

His palm, soft in yours, shifts until he’s intertwining his fingers with yours, attempting a stronger grip. You lift your eyes from the ground to his face for a second, meeting a gentle smile, and feel more pieces of your heart split.

They wander through your body, along your arm and straight into his chest, merging with his own organ. If you could, you’d push him against one of the unlit lamp posts, parted lips opting for his, breathing into his mouth.

He infested your thoughts and stuck with you, no way to escape the moment you first fell for him. And somehow, he managed to keep this effect intact, digging deeper into your mind and making himself home every damn second of the day.

The desire you’ve been feeling doesn’t just stem from lip rings and talent behind the camera. But you also keep realising that you’re truly this man’s, and that this man is truly yours.

A hard truth to fathom when you’re the subject of interest to one unique Jeon Jungkook.

But you want all of him. Want him over you, around you, taking all of what no other guy will ever be allowed to touch. Want him to show you once again where you belong and that you’re in this for as long as his affection is aligned with yours.

Fuck. Home is too far away.

So you look away from him. Which he interprets in an entirely wrong way.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, an inquiry out of nowhere that has your eyebrows kissing.

“No,” you answer.

“You barely talk to me. And,” he halts to wipe away a raindrop. Guess the clouds are gathering. “And I miss you.”

Your ribs might break. He keeps doing this to you.

“I’m not mad, Kook. Was just PMS-ing before,” you try again, adding a nickname for good measure.

“You sure?”

Jungkook is a free-spirited soul, careless to a healthy degree most of the time. There are only a few things that break his composure; familial insecurities, shitty pasts — and then there’s you.

Topping his list of priorities, you’re the only aspect in his current life that pushes him into spirals of overthinking.

And right now, he’s in the middle one, requiring a thousand reassurances. You want to answer. You really do.

But the distraction from above proves too strong the second you open your mouth. In the middle of your walk, the clouds explode, roaring for a moment before a downpour suddenly showers onto you.

The raindrops are thick, the bursting clouds aggressive.

Instinctively, Jungkook opens the umbrella, hastily working on it, and once under it, your steps pick up on pace. You wrap an arm around your body, closing the jacket, hooking your other arm with his and pushing the two of you forward.

“Shit,” you say; you look up, but can barely see anything. Only hear the thunder.

The wind grows colder, grazing the skin of your face incessantly. Despite the umbrella, the merciless rain wets your cheeks, singular drops flying towards you. Jungkook’s hair covers his face, and he shakes them off his eyes.

You gasp when a literal newspaper flies past you.

“Come on,” you encourage, already shivering. “We can talk about it at home, okay?”

But surprisingly, incredibly lost in his own head, he doesn’t give in. He adjusts to your pace, holding the umbrella in a strong grip, sighs and argues, “We can talk about it anytime.”

“Not now.”

“But—”

“Kook, right now’s not the time for this.”

Holy shit.

This man is a phenomenon. And you wish he wasn’t serious, but you know that he is. A full-on simp-y fool, no matter what.

“You’ve avoided me all week,” he yells over the sounds of the rain, sniffling, looking at the storm ahead, “we won’t die. It’s just rain.”

“It’s a thunderstorm, you idiot!” you exclaim back, moving straight forward and past running passengers. You should be home soon. “And in a minute we won’t be able to see shit.”

Jungkook must be made of cement. Broad shoulders, a well-trained body and willpower seem to combat the storm when he suddenly halts in his steps.

Immediately, you grab the umbrella, keeping it from nearly flying away; and when you remain the only presence under it, you ogle back. Watch him stand there in his red-white jacket, getting soaked by Mother Nature.

What the fuck.

You rush back, grabbing his wrist, pulling him forward as much as you can as you reprimand, “What the hell are you doing? Come on.”

“You’ll talk to me if I do?”

“Jungkook, we’ll die here, I—”

You flinch and gasp when another strong wind blows, once and for all ripping the umbrella off your hand and making it fly a couple feet from you. You watch it break through the fog of rain, mouth wide open with a dozen curses on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you exclaim, gritting your teeth, “I will. Just please, okay?!”

He’s so annoying. The way he looks at you, breathing hard, white shirt drenched and sticking to his body. You tug at his arm, forcing him to run when you do.

It takes you two entire minutes, wordless as you wish them to be, to reach his street and apartment. You tremble in the hallways, rushing up the stairs, and eventually take a seconds-long breath when you step into the flat.

It’s cold. So cold — and you had your jacket protecting your shirt. Your jeans and hair are soaked, your socks a sponge, soaked in a couple millilitres of water.

But it’s relieving when you take the jacket and your jeans off, pulling out the oversized, wrinkled shirt from under your pants, covering half your thighs. Jungkook slips out of his boots and rushes for a towel, approaching your heaving form at the door to dry your hair.

You quiver for a couple more minutes, fearing an approaching cold after all. But once settled on the couch, indulging in the comfort of thick joggers and a fresh cotton shirt, you sigh.

The silence still holding on only breaks when you drop your head back on the couch. A warm hand sneaks to your cheek, and when you open your eyes, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Warming up…” You lean into the touch, though still irritated by his behaviour before. “Thought it’d rain, but that was a surprise.”

“Yeah.” A pause. And then, “Was a little romantic, too.”

Unbelievable.

You roll your eyes at him, head tilting, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s joking. The goofy smile suggests that he is.

“Was it, yeah? You just—”

You click your tongue. Think back to him nearly offering his soul to Zeus just a couple minutes ago. Standing in the heavy rain as if he was the lead character in The Notebook.

“Don’t be mad now. I’m kidding,” he says. His voice isn’t as soft anymore; frustrated when he tries again, “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

“Seriously? I told you there’s nothing.”

“Nah, cut that bullshit. You haven’t talked to me or properly touched me all week. I’m trying my fucking best.”

“I know. This isn’t what it’s about,” you defend, shaking your head, getting to your feet, “but about that insane little stunt out there.”

And the fact that he’s been driving you crazy. The week’s distress mixed with whatever he made you feel yesterday; today’s insanity further adding to it.

When he doesn’t speak, you sigh, waving it off, and opt to walk away. But all in vain.

You make it two steps away from the couch before he flashes up, too; filmesque, you gasp at the strong grip around your elbow, getting a tiny second to process the situation before he’s twirled you around.

He probably didn’t intend it, but you nearly clash against him, stupidly losing your balance and stumbling over his and your own feet. You put a hand to your temples, fearing the worst — what if you fall and clash against the corner of your glass table?

But no. In slow motion, he keeps you in his firm hold, preventing the fall, but still letting you gently drop onto the fluffy, white carpet. Your investment. You’re happy about it now because it caught you the way the wooden floor wouldn’t.

Your movements towards the grounds are slow — or at least that’s what they feel like. But when he appears above you, pinning your wrists to the carpet hard, he’s breathless; and you think that maybe the fall didn’t happen as slowly after all.

“Okay,” he says through gritted teeth. From down here, his jaw looks as sharp as a ship’s deck, the Adam’s apple bobbing when he challenges, “You’re gonna fucking tell me what’s going on.”

Oh. He’s mad.

His eyes are burning, jaw flexed. Defined chest rising in anger.

There’s nothing going on. At least nothing that warrants another fight.

But you don’t tell him that just yet. Instead, all your perplexed mind and tongue manage is, “What?”

“I forgave you. We were both shitty that day, you know? But I still did forgive you, and you’re still being like that.” His knuckles must be paling, because his grip is iron hard. “Why?”

“I—”

“I’ll apologise if that’s what you want. I did, actually. I’m sorry, okay? There. But this is just,” fingers squeeze your wrists, and you hiss, “ridiculous.”

Your following grimace, lips twitching, eyes squinting, go through to him immediately. The hold doesn’t hurt or bother you too much, but the leg between your knees does. Jungkook wouldn’t wound you; he knows his limits.

But perhaps he thinks he’s going overboard when he loosens his fingers, pressing his palms against your skin, rubbing to soothe the missing pain.

He doesn’t quite move away, though, still stubborn when you assure once again, “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I’m not,” you tell him, heart racing at the proximity. You close your legs around his knee, irritated by the barrier. “I promise.”

He doesn’t give your gesture much attention just yet; doesn’t know that his body over yours is exactly what you’ve been craving. But he does understand the sincerity in your voice. Finally.

When he moves closer, pupils melting to fluid gems, you let out an intentional, teeny tiny moan that you’re sure he confuses for a relieved sigh. He moves his palms onto the carpet, caging you in; you keep your wrists where they are, but dig your nails into your skin.

You want to kiss him so badly. You miss him so much.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, angel,” he demands again, quieter and softer this time.

“I don’t know.”

With the fury evaporating bit by bit, his eyes look bigger and rounder again. The desperation of the week gathers in them and his expression, shooting all the way down to his tongue; and when he whispers to you next, your heart collapses, “Please?”

He’s sweet… so utterly oblivious to your true thoughts.

But you couldn’t feel more embarrassed about the pictures you’ve been painting and the words ghosting in that mind of yours. He’d do all of it, no questions asked. But… fuck.

“This is so dumb,” you answer, fingertips dragging down the carpet and then up to his waist, “like… you’ll laugh.”

The touch encourages him. His arms are shaking now, holding him up in this position for too long, and the wandering fingers along his sides and chest must weaken him like his lines affect you.

“That’s a good thing,” he answers, closer than ever when he balances his weight on his arms now, forearms touching the carpet. “I’d rather laugh than fight.”

But the closeness remains for mere seconds before he pulls back again, sitting up with a groan. Hands on his thighs, he lets himself fall on bended knees. He watches your still helpless body on the floor until you work on getting off the carpet, letting him pull you up when he offers a hand.

You ruffle through your hair, legs folding. Your pout is more directed towards yourself than anyone else; you totally realise you didn’t need to confuse him the way you did. Stupid period.

“Listen, I just…” you start, scraping your scalp.

His knees bump against your legs when he drifts closer; there’s something about the two of you sitting on your living room carpet like this.

“It’s just that I want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

And that’s it. That’s literally it.

He halts. His hand was moving up, probably to touch your face, your hair, anything soft to ease the mood. But he cancels the tender gesture, fingers falling back to his knee when he absorbs your words.

Silences with cocked eyebrows. Processes the way you lick your lips and look away, tugging at his wide shirt. And then, once he’s understood, he tsks. Chuckles.

And you, immediately on guard, push lightly against his shoulder, unsurprised when he doesn’t buckle, and defend, “Told you you’d laugh!”

“No, but,” he says, sweet crinkles around his eyes, head tilting and bunny teeth giving way to the prettiest smile in existence, “what are you talking about, hm?”

He knows. If only his feigned innocence was as sweet as his grin, too.

Still, you opt to clarify, “That thing you did yesterday.”

“What thing?”

Ugh.

“The whole modelling thing!” you exclaim, raising your hands. His beam reaches up to his eyes; his occasional giggles are killing you. “Stop. Do you have any clue what you looked like?”

He has the audacity to shrug. “They let me see the pics on their cameras. They’ll come out well.”

“Well? Dude, you looked…”

“What?”

“Dangerous. Like you could eat me up.”

Eat me up might be accurate. It’s the description floating through your little mind since yesterday.

“Ah,” he says, nodding smugly. You know he’s about to tease you. Because— “You specifically, yeah? I was just doing what they told me to.”

“What, is me specifically wrong? Anyone else you’d wanna eat up or—”

“You’re really fixating on that, huh?” Jungkook snickers. His tongue pokes the inside of his right cheek in a brief pause, and then he adds, “You’ve got a point. Didn’t think it’d affect you, though.”

Slowly, but surely, he seems to grasp his own power over you. You think he’s reminiscing about yesterday’s chaos and confidence; maybe even viewing it all from your point of view.

Because his smirk, albeit subtle, is sly when he asks, “What was it like?”

“I…” You click your tongue. “You’ll take me apart if I tell you.”

“Why so?”

“Because.” A beat of silence. You swallow to wet your throat. Then. “I’d ask you to.”

“Ah…” Another understanding nod, as though you’re lecturing him on NASA’s rocket science and he’s finally grasping its meaning. “Yeah?”

“I saw you from afar,” you point into a direction arbitrarily, as if he’s still several feet from you and not mere inches, “and I wanted to,” you inhale when a finger reaches out, straight to a vein in your neck, gentle, exploring, “let you do anything with me that you wanted to.”

“Ohh.” His palm covers your neck, as if he’s coddling you. But you know what that touch will morph into, so you sneak closer to him, lean forwards. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“…Right.”

His thumb moves up and rubs under your jaw, then up your face and to your lower lip. The touch is soft and careful, as though gauging your reaction and searching for permission.

Your shaky, little exhale is nearly unnoticeable, but you know he catches it, and you know he already sees the consent in your eyes. But he still doesn’t lean in. Moves his eyes across your face, to his hand, to your neck and then all the way back to your gaze.

And then, contrasting the loving movements and affectionate gesture, he smiles. Mischief spreads in his stare, and his fingers retreat to the back of your neck, pulling you closer by a miniscule inch.

“So that’s what it was all this time? You’re on your knees for me, is that it?”

“Babe…” You look down, daring a joke. “Quite literally.”

You shuffle in your spot when he laughs quietly, hooking your fingers into the neckline of his shirt. You emphasise, “I mean it. Just… If you must know? I would’ve been okay with handing you all the control, okay? All of it.”

You’re aware you’re acting as though he doesn’t wreck your shit every other time, too. In fact, that’s probably how the two of you started out.

His absolute craze at the frat party, drunk. College nights when you’d confront him about your bullshit — weak excuses to make him press you against his dorm walls. A hand clapped over your mouth, your ass out, dick buried inside until you felt him in your guts—

You’ve always been at his mercy — but you want him to split you in half this time.

“You would’ve?” he repeats. “And now? Still want that?”

You look down again. There’s no shyness in that movement, no averting his beastly eyes — your focus lies elsewhere because you have a theory. Which proves true.

The swelling under his joggers, right there between his legs wasn’t there before.

So you gather your voice, and say, “…Yes.”

“Hmm. Why didn’t you tell me?” His fingernails dig lightly into your skin, and right in the middle of the tension, he pouts for a little moment. “I genuinely thought you were still pissed.”

“I was on my period…” You shrug your shoulders. “It was also late. I was so tired, and—”

He waits.

“I knew that you’d do it if I asked for it.”

“I would’ve.” What’s worse? The confirmation or the tickling breath against your cheek? When did he get so close? “I still would. If you want me to.”

“I just said yes,” you tug at the shirt, eliciting an amused grin as the tips of your noses collide, “you’ll keep asking and,” your heart beats at a million miles a minute, “just not kiss me, is that it?”

Your provocation proves effective just the right amount.

Because he opens his mouth, seemingly snarling — you can’t tell for sure, since his lips clash against yours within half a moment. Determined as his hand immediately flashes to the small of your back, supporting you before you fall backwards on the carpet.

And then he kisses you like a man starved. Like he’s run out of saliva, dehydrated. Seeks your tongue, tastes like earthy Matcha Latte and something you can’t quite define — something that’s so uniquely him.

Your kiss muffles his tiny sound, a mixture of a sigh and a moan, body impatient as he tries to push closer to you, though separated by your clashing knees. You understand — you, too, would let him smother you under his weight if you could.

So you pull your folded legs apart, shifting until they surround him and attempting to straddle him. But he’s plotting something else: his fingers hold your jaw, keeping you in place, and the hot, wet kiss breaks when he pulls away.

You catch a brief glimpse of glistening lips before he moves to trail down your body, leaning in to teeth at your shirt, pushing it off your shoulder and kissing your skin for a fleeting second. And when the shirt shifts back into position, his other hand works on your tits.

Grabs your shirt at its hem, lifting it over your mounds until they’re free, nipples perked, home to him. In a haze, the tip of his tongue touches the right nub, and you shiver.

More so when he whispers, “Am so hard for you, I’ll fucking combust.”

For you.

You’ll repent for how badly you want him in your mouth.

You caress his thigh, sneaking up until you reach the swelling under the fabric. You feel it immediately, firm as a rock, big and fat, so sensitive that he hisses once you touch it.

“No,” he commands, the word barely a breath, “no, no. Don’t or I’ll come like this.”

He says it against your neck. Warm and tickling. You feel goosebumps arise, your reactions slow, but your heart fast. His fingers engulf your wrist, leading your palm to his cheek; you feel the smileless dimple under your thumb when he darts out his tongue to wet his lips.

Then, you close your eyes; the pecks against your neck are exhilarating. The moving touch, down to your tits and then back up to your jaw is one of his favourite games; you move your hips against the carpet, soaked panties sticking against your pussy.

“You’re…” you start, fingers in his fluffy hair as he bites your nipple. You moan, your words shaky, “You’re— more into this today.”

“I mean… after everything you just said to me?” He chuckles, moving up, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth brushes yours.

“And I missed her.” Free hand between your thighs, he taps just over your clit; your lips part. “Too crude to say I can’t wait for her to swallow my cock?”

Well. Fuck.

If it wasn’t him, you’d cringe. But it is him, and the truth is that you’re dying for him to press himself onto you. To wrap himself around you, to wrap yourself around him.

You want him to cut you in half, want to be his little toy until you can barely stand.

“Maybe,” you tell him, “but I promise that she wants it, too.”

That’s it, that’s it.

It’s when teeth meet again, the kiss messy, your arms around his neck. He holds you by your waist, pulling you off the floor a little, readjusting his position, so you can climb onto him.

You tilt your head as far as you can, taking him in, drooling, lips and tongue moving wildly to taste all of him. His digits wander from your back to your ass, pushing between your cheeks and pressing against your clenching hole.

The gesture is short lived, but enough for you to rub against him. The urge to rip your panties and part your folds over his girth is profuse; to dampen his length and empty his balls just like this.

But he clenches his jaw, groaning. Halts your movement with a strong grip before pulling at your hair without breaking the kiss. You move your fingers up and down his arm, and then dash it upwards to bury them in his locks, too.

Only, instead of reaching his mane, your hand hits the glass table on your left; you grunt into the kiss and then move away to exclaim, “Ah, fuck.”

Jungkook must’ve heard the sound because he catches on right away, laughing. Gently, he pushes you off his lap, gets back on his knees and then up. He pulls you with him as he says, “Alright. Get on the couch before you hurt yourself.”

“Couch?”

You’re surprised; not the bed this time, is it?

Then again — Jungkook isn’t necessarily picky when it comes to this; cue flashback to bathroom adventures.

So you still listen. Wobbly legs drag you to the sofa, plumping onto it as you watch him follow. The bulge is huge, hotter than hellfire when he palms it and lets go again.

“Too damn lazy to get to the bedroom,” he declares before dropping back on his knees.

You thought he’d climb over you, push you back across the length of the couch. But instead, he seems satisfied with your helpless position, pushing back the carpet and table some to take a seat right in front of you.

You admire his patience — the outline of his cock presses against its confines. Does it not hurt? His expression doesn’t reveal any discomfort as he adjusts against the hard floor; the carpet barely provides any relief.

But the discomfort doesn’t redirect his focus, his touch heading towards you, urging you to remove your joggers at turtle’s pace. He throws them over his shoulder and onto the table, one leg of them dangling off of it.

Left in your panties, you watch his hands curl under your knees, freeing his way to where you want to ache. Lifts your legs, places them on his shoulders carefully, amused and delighted when your bent limbs drag him closer to your cunt.

His tenacious tongue peeks between his teeth, and he fondles your thighs before he reaches the hem of your panties. They bug him — separate your heat from his mouth; in this moment, a crime to him.

“Help me here real quick,” he whispers, and you raise your ass, letting him drag the underwear off of you.

It sticks to your pussy for a second, obscenely flooded with your gradually building arousal. You think he sees, because he halts for a second, eyes flitting up to you before he says, “I think this’ll be fun.”

“You promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Well…

You shrug your shoulders, but smile tellingly, eliciting a smirk that decorates his gorgeous face, closing in bit by bit. The cool air evaporates the nearer he draws, replaced by his hot breath.

And then… just to test…

He darts out his tongue, the sharp tip of it tickling your clit. Your reaction, much desired, stirs a new type of appetite in him. Because your chin trembles just once, just for a moment. Lashes flutter, and his heart skips a beat.

As he inhales, but never exhales, you question, “What?”

“Nothing,” he assures, blowing against your sex, “just. So very pretty.”

You look down at him. His shoulders look broader from here. Muscular, hair dark and silky. His lips are colourful, handsome, nose ready to bury in your pelvis. If he thinks you’re pretty, then he’s the definition of true aesthetic.

Slowly, you reach for his hair, brushing through it before you bring his head closer to you, hinting at the obvious, and say, “And you.”

“Not like you, though…”

He waits, allowing the both of you a moment of preparation.

And then… he’s kissing your pussy. Lightly at first, up and down, a hand on your inner thigh that moves closer and closer to your folds.

He sighs once before a digit parts your nether lips sticking together, and then licks a stripe between them. You whine quietly; his eyes close. He’s beautiful like this; in a minute, he’ll look at you again, mouth swollen, and you’ll wish for his touch to last and last and last…

“Please,” you only whisper, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, his sweet kisses turn into something more. Way more wetness, way more tongue. And before you know it, he’s splitting your legs wider, pushing in to start devouring you.

Your moans are intoxicating. They’re sudden, but not surprising, voiced against the ceiling when your head falls back. The heels of your feet dig into his back, pushing him closer when his knees are already touching the couch.

The movements of his mouth are warm, a waterfall. He eats you out until he’s slurping, drenching you further. He’ll slide in effortlessly, you already know. Will bury every single inch of himself inside you, fill you up for the rest of the day.

And your high — it builds up embarrassingly fast. Perhaps because it’s been a while; or maybe because it’s Jeon Jungkook you’re dealing with. Either way, your lower stomach aches, the knot pressing against your guts.

“Kookie,” you murmur, yet again left without an answer.

He knows not to break his focus this time; knows that you’re close, recognises it in your grip around the patch of his hair. Hears it in your desperate whimpers, louder by the second. Words more unintelligible now.

Your thigh is twitching every now and then, quivering, and he takes it as a sign to keep sucking and swirling. Then flicks his wet muscle over your engorged clit, adding to your exclaims when his nimble fingers glide into you swiftly.

Too swiftly. Two of them are barely enough; and he adds a third. Your cheeks heat up, body sliding down — partly because you’re dying inside, partly because he’s pulling you towards him.

Jungkook knows how to navigate your body, how to direct you towards a rationality-breaking explosion. And he does. He does with the plethora of lustful licks, softly circling around your clit. His nose presses against it every time he shifts downwards, tasting you thoroughly.

“I’m almost—” you voice, and he hums, vibrations torture.

It’s a game to him that he’s skilled at; he understands his moves, and he never loses. Neither today as he clamps his hand onto your waist, fingers pumping in and out of you, curling and digging, massaging your favourite spot.

They turn and twist, two fingers of his free hand settling around your clit and raising it for better access.

It takes probably half a minute longer… and then… then…

Your voice grows in pitch, nearly illegal for a Sunday afternoon, but music to his ears. So genuine and sweet. Corners of your eyes glistening. He holds your legs apart as you start begging, but all he truly makes out is the eager repetition of his name.

He wishes your shirt didn’t cover your upper body; wishes he could see the heaving of your chest, the perked nipples, the sweat on your clavicles.

But for now, this is enough.

The way he sees waves of pleasure wash over you, eyes rolled back, not looking at him anymore. Your lips are dry, your tongue probably, too, and he wants to kiss it wet again.

You moan and wince and keen, body restless. The tug of his hair becomes more prominent and palpable, but the sensation makes him smile. You’re probably barely noticing, too.

That is, until your hold and breathing finally calm down. You keep riding the wave, your head turning in odd circle-ish shapes. He kisses your pussy, helping you through it, only stopping when you open your eyes.

“Well, that was…” he says, lips as swollen as you anticipated, shimmering, “a good start.”

“Every single time,” you begin, panting, shaking your head. You watch him as he gets on his feet, moving in to your mouth. “Every single time I think it can’t get better, and then I remember it’s just the fucking beginning.”

He shifts to you slowly, grazing your lips, and declares with a soft smile, “More to come, I promise. Gonna have so much fun with you.”

“Do your worst—”

One more kiss. Shorter this time, but you recognise the familiar, lingering taste immediately. Neutral, not too bad. Fills you with pride, because he never fails to guarantee that he loves it.

But you can’t wallow in it because he retreats quickly, impatient hands freeing his golden body from his clothes. The shirt falls somewhere next to the carpet, his own joggers soon discarded, landing on top of yours and sliding to the ground together.

He’s a menace when he climbs onto the couch, knees digging in and creating a shift on each side of your body. His bulge, still hidden behind his boxers, floats in front of your face; from this close, you see the droplet of precum darken a spot of the light purple cotton.

“Next stage?” he wonders above you, stroking your hair gently, as if he’s not about to explore the back of your throat. “Want or do I rather not?”

“What do you mean with not?” Your breathing is heavy as you lift your palm and engulf the imprint of his dick. He flinches, hips moving back a bit before they come back. “Get this shit off.”

He chuckles. Brings his hand to your cheek, thumb caressing it and voice clear when he says, “You’re so cute. Being demanding and all.”

But he still listens. Gets off the couch, slides his underwear off, leaves you gaping.

Gaping at the hooked and girthy tower. Gaping at how the slit on top of his head glimmers. Gaping at the moles along the stiff length, staring at the thick veins, at the full, firm balls.

“Tongue out,” he orders; you do.

The ink-free hand pushes his dick down to you, tapping it against your tongue as you open up wide. He feels heavy, hot, the skin smooth. Your head moves forward to swallow more, but he pulls back.

Strokes himself for a couple seconds, thumb spreading the precum over his head. You drool. Watch attentively, as though you’re learning — until he eventually guides it back to you and positions it into your still gaping mouth.

Enters it slowly. Slightly salty. Then says, “Breathe. And don’t overthink it too much.”

Huh.

Well. Damn.

Because…

At times, you do worry about your expressions; about your tears when you gag around him, the coughing fits you get in the middle of it all. So that’s a surprise. Attentive.

But your mind is blank today anyway; so you nod, moving to lick the underside of the tip, and he laughs, mumbling, “Alright. Have it, babe.”

And you do.

Slowly at first, cautious as you twirl your tongue around him. You don’t notice much discomfort just yet, thankful that he’s easing you into this. A third of his length buried inside, you close your lips around him and hollow your cheeks.

Which is probably when the invisible threads holding him back finally break.

“Okay,” he says, “you got this.”

His knees move in, more inches intruding. His fingers drift to the back of your head, and you dig yours in his brawny thighs. He grows harder in your mouth, impossibly bigger the more you drag your lips along his member.

How gratifying. You’ve craved this for hours and days. What was your argument about again?

Your head drops further back when he shoves himself inside, more and more as time passes. You imitate his prior advances — hum and close your eyes. Bring a hand to the base of his cock, pumping all that you won’t be choking around.

When you gaze up at him to analyse his reactions, he leaves your mind vacant. Because his head is raised, like yours, jawline edged and acute. Mouth open until he meets your eyes.

You hope he’s seeing something just as lascivious and mind-numbing from his perspective. Maybe messy hair, laying against the softness of your shirt. Or a cock appearing out of and disappearing behind pretty lips.

Slowly blinking eyes that shut just as slowly again, and a tongue that falls out and licks along a vein whenever your head moves to the side. Allowing you a couple deep breaths.

He must be perceiving it all, too.

Because a moment later, he gnarls, like a wild animal, and states, “This won’t do—”

—Before putting both hands under your ears, holding your head and…

Ramming his cock into your mouth.

You gasp around him, taken aback and delighted at once. Feel the effect between your legs, hoping to not defile the couch too much.

Head still thrown back, falling further, you already feel the ache in the back of your neck. Your attempts of holding onto the couch prove futile because there is nothing to hold onto, armrests too far away; so you return to his thighs.

But he keeps your body steady, held at the spot between his legs. Your head is a different story: it bounces back and forth, the exhales through your nose frantic as he pounds into your throat before he slows down again.

“Good, gooood,” he drags out, observing the glistening veins as he draws back to his tip and then moves in again. “Doing very, very well. Looks so gorgeous, baby.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about — about you, his cock, the position. Everything?

He keeps up the gentler pace, allowing you a break. Allowing himself the pleasure of this very image. Pretty lips surrounding a pretty dick.

And perhaps your desperate, little moans, accompanied by rapid blinking, set a fuse loose in his brain.

Because a moment later, Jungkook dares a step further — cock already stuffing your entire mouth, he pushes in more. The fat monstrosity reaches far, your gag reflex not as much at bay anymore as before.

The view seems to spur him on, though, and you can imagine why. If you were him, you’d probably enjoy the drooling mess under him, too. Salivating all over his dick, you feel the gross drop of your spit land on your clavicle, throat constricting as he thrusts in.

And just when you’re about to tap his thighs — very reluctantly, too — to catch your breath, he pulls back, fingers immediately digging into your cheeks to straighten your neck and head. You cough, eyes teary, your breathing quick and uncontrolled.

Like a toy, he moves your head to the left, to the right, a sly smirk playing around his lips until he moves down to you, back arched. Amidst your panting, he presses a brief kiss to your mouth, slippery against the dampness.

And then he says, as casually as he shouldn’t, “You’d look so beautiful in leashes.”

“…What?”

But he ignores your mumbled inquiry, instead thumbing at your lower lip. His dark eyes flit from one facial feature to another, pink lip caught between his teeth. The firm chest rises dangerously when he breathes in.

“Should I come in your mouth?” he asks as if you’d ever say no; as if you don’t know that he’s asking because he won’t. “Huh? Shoot it all the way down your throat?”

“Do it, fucking coward.”

…And just like that, he moves back.

tumblr is cruel and the 1k block limit in the new editor won't let me post the entire thing at once lol so here's the rest in a reblog!!! <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #bts fic #jungkook scenario #jeon jungkook smut #thebtswritersclub #jungkook fic #jungkook imagines #jungkook

4K notes · View notes

gyuswhore · 8 months

Text

Hits Different (...'cause it's you) [teaser]

«« I trace the evidence, make it make some sense Why the wound is still bleedin' »»

READ FULL FIC HERE!

PAIRING: kim mingyu x reader

SYNOPSIS: Kim Mingyu was the first friend your brother had brought home for dinner. Fast forward a couple years, his toothy smile and pierced ears would wedge their way into a permanent place in your heart. Nail to a coffin, never to escape.

or;

in which you get rejected by the only boy you've ever loved; a rejection you can't quite shake off.

GENRES: based off of 'Hits Different' by Taylor Swift, brother's best friend!au, brother!seokmin, fluff, angst, smut (none in teaser) [MINORS DNI], friends(?) to lovers, university!au.

PLAYLIST: right here!

WORD COUNT: est. 25k

WORD COUNT [teaser]: ~820

RELEASE DATE: est. october 2nd 2023

!PLEASE SEND AN ASK TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST (ageless blogs WILL NOT BE ADDED)!

masterlist

WARNINGS [!is subject to change upon publishing of the full fic!]: slowburn, mingyus a bit of an airhead and an ass, reader has a hard time managing her feelings, lots of frustrated tears, one sided pining, user toruro x minghao make an appearance, swearing, there's another woman (gasp,,,,,but shes cool so), Nayeon is a darling, Seungcheol is kinda annoying here but we love him, (smut tags in the full fic)

[A/N]: I worked rlly hard on the banner pls look at it ‼️ enjoy hehe also this is probably gonna be way more than 25k but I supposed its better than overshooting

teaser under the cut!

It’s a black sedan that rolls up next to you, slower than what’s considered a normal speed on an empty street. It honks and you nearly halt, owing to the shake that passes through your knees. It honks again, and you can’t help but look to the side to find a window rolled down.

Mingyu sits on the driver’s seat, leaning over to the empty passenger side to grab your attention.

“The Uber’s free! So is the driver,” he yells out the window. “Hop in.”

“I’m alright. I kinda wanna walk.” You shift your weight between your feet, the distance adding an awkward feel.

“Wasn’t asking. It’s the middle of the night, I’m not letting you walk alone.” As he speaks, another car passes from behind him, slowing down. You note the look the other driver is giving you through the window, and it’s enough to convince you to step into Mingyu’s car.

“I think we’re way past the point of formalities, don’t know why you hesitated.” He chuckles as he motions for you to click on your seatbelt. You fumble with it for a moment, his own fingers coming to the rescue to latch it on. You retract your fingers before they can brush with his own any further.

Settling into your seat, you choose to look forward as he picks up speed. “Uhm, just wanted to walk, it was nice outside.”

“Take someone with you next time, it’s nearly midnight,” he warns.

There’s a twinge of annoyance that emerges in the back of your mind for some reason, despite knowing full well that he was right. You just didn’t want to hear it from him.

It’s silent for a bit as the radio plays an uncharacteristically upbeat tune, prompting you to wonder if it was just you who felt the atmosphere pressing in on your chest.

“Did you not bring your car today?” he asks out of the blue, eyes remaining on the road as you glance up at him. One look at his side profile and you’re turning your gaze away.

“No, it’s at the workshop. I came with Nayeon.”

“Why didn’t you leave with her?”

“I…” You pause. “I told her I was gonna go with Seok.”

“Hm. That didn’t happen.”

“It’s like I said,” you mumble.

He hums again in response, dropping the subject.

“Listen, are you…are you okay?” he starts again and it has you looking back up at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You try to hide the bitterness in your tone but it proves difficult.

“I couldn’t help but overhear but I was sitting right there. Hao was talking to Mika about something she’d said to you, about…” He trails off. “I mean, you looked a little upset, I just wanted to ask if you were okay.”

You bit your tongue. Hard.

He knew you were staring at him, he knew you weren’t over him. He knew you were still standing on the same square confinement from months ago. Never changed.

“I’m fine,” you reply, snappier than you had intended.

“Are you sure? I felt like I should’ve said something but Nayeon was right there so I thought…” He sounds unsure and when you see him look at you, with eyes filled with an emotion that makes you nearly gag, you almost lose it. You did not want him to pity you. Nor care for you; especially when it came from a place that nullifies your feelings. You didn’t want him to care for you for the sole reason that you were his best friend’s sister.

“Mingyu, I think it’s best if you drop it.”

“Of course. But it might help if you wanna, you know, feel your feelings.”

Fuck no, you weren’t crying in front of him. Not when you're sure he’s noticed the tear stains on your makeup.

“Mingyu, I said drop it. I don’t need your help, I don’t need to feel anything, I need you stop feeling like you’re obligated to care about me because you’re not.” The words come tumbling out before you can stop them, irritation laced in every snap and dent.

He says your name in an attempt to smooth you over. It only lands him in more trouble.

“No, listen, I get it. You’re uncomfortable about everything but you feel like you need to check up on me at the same time, and I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to worry about that. What happened, happened, and it’s my job to pick up the pieces because it’s my fault. You don’t need to meddle.” You’re breathing hard as you finish, finally settling back in your seat.

He’s already pulling up to your building, heat still penetrating the silence. You unbuckle your seatbelt, mumbling a thanks for the ride.

“Seok’s staying at Cheol’s tonight,” he calls out as you shuffle out the door. “Remember to lock the door.”

You stand sheepishly holding the open door as you nod quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the shoot.”

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luxurychristmaspudding · 1 month

Text

watch | JM x FM x SG x f!Reader

summary: after showing frankie what he was missing, something seems to have been awoken in you all. with joel away on a contract and santi called out of town, you're left in frankie's care. except one rule still stands - you can't touch.

read part 1, listen, here BONUS: al's handy guide to reading watch

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. alright, buckle in. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, lil bit of softdom!reader and bratty!reader as well hehe. drinking, pet names (inc. little/baby girl, baby boy). rules get broken (surprise!), praise kink, dirty talk, daddy kink, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), exhibitionism, voyeurism, public fingering, blowjobs (m receiving and giving), rimming, mutual masturbation, phone sex, use of toys (f&m), consensual somnophilia, cumplay, edging, facesitting, anal fingering (m), mfm, anal sex (m receiving), tiny bit of breath play (not reader), light bondage, brief gagging, very high sex drives but who can blame them, once again so many orgasms i lost count, and in the immortal words of @thatredheadwriter, 'so much fluid exchange I think a hasmat team should probably go in to clean it up' reader wears dresses and has hair, but has no other descriptions. no use of y/n.

wc: 25k (i know, i'm so sorry)

an: many many many thanks to the peeps who waited an age for this. you've all been so patient and kind and i hope you enjoy! for @schnarfer, @swiftispunk, @5oh5 and @janaispunk who, without their constant encouragement and recommendation, this may not have happened at all <3 dividers as always from the wonderful @saradika-graphics

In the weeks that follow, you wait for the ball to drop.

You wait to feel weird about what the four of you did, for the kick of it, for Joel to reveal that he actually wasn’t that sold on it. You wait for a text or call from Frankie or Santi to say it was nice knowing you, but it was a little much, a little weird to see you around now.

It doesn’t happen.

You stay slotted into Joel’s life like you were always meant to be there. You stay over at his, he stays over at yours. You spend lazy Sunday mornings making waffles or pancakes and getting fucked dumb. He brings you flowers when work is hard, you rub his shoulders when he’s had a rough day on site. Your body is marked beneath your clothes with his bruises, the shape of his teeth, and his is marked by yours, the scratch of your nails traced delicately down his back.

You spend your time orbiting around each other, close and safe in the bubble you’ve built, warm and soft in the afternoon sunlight that streams through the curtains on your days off, eating in and eating out. He becomes more familiar than anyone else has ever been with the inner workings of your mind, the inner workings of your body. He introduces you to his brother, Tommy, and his wife, Maria. He talks about you to Sarah, and she says she’d love to meet you next time she’s home from college. He makes space for your books on his shelves, and your clothes find a way into his wardrobe; his squeeze into your drawers, a spare toothbrush for him in your bathroom. He kisses you, hot and open mouthed when he drops you off at work, does the same when you find his truck waiting outside for you when you’re done. He asks how the boys are when you come home from drinks with them, listens with sparkling eyes when you tell him Benny’s latest hookup is from the bar you used to work at, the place where they first met you. He chuckles and tells you he's glad Santi introduced the two of you when he did, before any of the others swooped in and took you for themselves.

Sometimes, you think he forgets about the night that Frankie asked you out, the conversations that followed. How close it could have been.

But that's naive of you. Naive of you to think that he doesn’t see, doesn’t seek out the claim that Frankie and Santi have also made on you. Because he knows. In some infuriating, impossible way, he always knows.

He shows you he knows one morning, when you have already been awake for what feels like hours, watching his broad chest rise and fall with deep, sleeping breaths.

You trace the curve of his nose with your eyes, the scruff of his beard, the way his curls have grown out. Luscious and thick, spattered with grey, curling down into the nape of his neck. His lips look so warm, so soft, that you’ve been challenging yourself, seeing how long you can go without kissing him awake. Seeing how long you can go with just remembering how they felt between your legs last night, wet with spit and your release as he soothed you through orgasm after orgasm, kissing your thighs, sucking marks into your soft flesh as he held you down with one thick palm braced against your belly, the other with its fingers gently pumping in and out of you. The deep timbre of his voice when you made yourself look at him, his praise, good girl, there she is, doin’ so good for me, sweet girl through your tears, as you begged him, begged him for something else, something more. More, daddy, you’d pleaded. You'd needed something thicker, something deeper. You always do.

You squirm beneath the sheets, pressing your thighs together. Try to think of anything else. The green of his bedroom walls, the boots you know will be at the end of the bed. His trinkets on the dresser - the watch Sarah bought (and fixed, many times) for him, the picture of him and his family at Tommy and Maria’s wedding, your clothes scattered about the floor, the chair in the corner of the room, the chair where he sat that night, as he watched, as he watched you -

You roll over onto your side to look away from it, squeezing your eyes shut, barely able to control your whimper. You’re slick between your thighs, too warm as your wetness mixes with the cum still drooling out of your cunt. You try and count his freckles instead, starting from his forehead to his cheekbones, down to his neck - his neck - his shoulder, the bite mark you left there as he spilled himself into you, the hand resting on his chest, his thick fingers, his fingers -

It’s no good. It’s no fucking good. He needs to rest, so you take a deep breath and steel yourself. Coffee. You’ll head downstairs, you’ll make coffee, and when he’s slept enough you’ll talk him through everything you’ve been thinking about, and he’ll make it better. Starting with his tongue.

You press your hands to the mattress as you start to raise your torso from the bed, and almost immediately at the shifting of your weight, Joel’s hand shoots out to grab you.

‘Where you goin’, pretty girl?’

You smile, smug. So he's awake. And you know, with his grip like this, you’ll get anything you want from him.

‘Coffee,’ you say, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to his soft lips. He returns it, eyes still shut, hand shifting from your forearm to your bicep, to your shoulder, to the back of your neck. He holds you there as he draws his tongue across the seam of your lips, and with a groan you let him in. The bristle of his moustache tickles as he licks into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth as his free hand skates between the sheets to skim over your bare thigh. You shift against him, bringing your calf over both of his legs. The movement brings his hand forwards, dipping between your legs to trace two fingers up through your drenched cunt. You moan loudly against him, and Joel chuckles.

‘Last night not enough for you, little girl?’

You hum against him, shaking your head. He retracts his fingers.

‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you.

‘No, da-’ you start, but as soon as your lips part he has his fingers on your tongue. On instinct, your eyes flutter shut and you suck them, swirling your tongue over the thick digits, savouring the taste of you both.

‘Rude to talk with your mouthful, sweet pea,’ he murmurs, ‘Somebody oughta fuck some manners into ya.’

With his fingers still in your mouth, Joel turns you onto your back, bracing himself away from you to watch you continue to suckle on his fingers. He pushes them further back, further, further, only to watch you begin to gag around him.

‘Good girl,’ he says, withdrawing them, spit-slick, before bringing them back to your pussy. He watches your face as he pushes them easily inside, the crease between your brows, the way your jaw slackens, the way your eyes widen as he curls them into your sweet spot. He nods, pleased. ‘Think you’re wet enough to take me already, baby,’ he says, swiping them over your clit. You jolt, moaning again at the feeling. ‘What do you think?’

‘Yeah, daddy,’ you sigh, ‘Ready for you.’

Joel chuckles.

‘Always so ready f'me, isn’t she, princess?’ He says, lining himself up at your entrance, gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on him. He doesn’t expect an answer this time. ‘Yeah, always dripping for me, aren’t you? Poor baby girl. Poor baby girl and her messy little pussy.’

He feeds his cock to you slowly, so slowly. You whine and arch against him as he does, brain trickling away from you, already so given in to the sensation; mind deliciously blank, nails scratching at his forearms as he cages you in, thrusting deep, bottoming out. When he sees your eyes roll back, he picks up his pace smoothly, thrusting faster and harder, deeper. You moan out a long daddy, and he huffs in amusement.

‘Does daddy feel good, sweet girl?’

You gasp out a yes, fuck, daddy, and he hums in response.

'There she is,’ he says, ‘Didn’t need coffee, did ya, baby? Just wanted daddy. Just needed your daddy, hm?’ You nod furiously, tongue loosened by the heavy weight of him inside you, babbling away about how good he feels, how deep, how big he is. You lock your ankles around the bottom of his spine to pull him closer, and he groans, head dipping to yours. ‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘You take what you need, baby. Just wanna get fucked, huh? Woke up dreamin’ a me? Dreamin’ a me fuckin’ you full of my cum again, babygirl?’

You moan again, neck pulling taught as you arch further, pull him in deeper. The coil deep in your belly tightens, jaw clenching as you scratch at him, as you tug the hair at the nape of his neck.

‘Poor baby, can’t even get her words out,’ he coos, and like he wants to prove his point, he pushes even deeper, tip kissing your cervix, the bruising feeling making you gasp, making you plead, making you beg as you try and move your hips away from him. He brings his hand away from your face to your waist, keeping you in place.

‘Relax, sweetheart,’ he smiles, rocking in and out of you again, ‘I know you can take it, just relax f'me. That’s a good girl. I know it’s big but you can take it.’

You clench around him, painfully, try to mumble out how close you are, but you can’t even summon the words. In this room, he is all you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel. The slickness of it, the heat, the burning pleasure rising inside you as you writhe beneath him.

‘I know, baby, I know,’ he murmurs, ‘You’re close already, huh?’ You hum, body tight, so close, so close, head so empty. ‘Yeah, you are. Fuck, love when you get all stupid on me like this. You like getting fucked dumb on daddy’s cock, baby? Can you feel me all the way in here, sweetheart?’ he asks, moving the hand on your waist to press against your lower stomach. You clench harder as he presses down, the coil tightening, spiralling, and you’re right there - ‘Wish you could fuckin’ see yourself right now, baby. Wish you could see how pretty ya look getting fucked. You like being watched, don’t ya, darlin’? Yeah. Want Santi and Francisco to watch again, baby?’ You gasp at his words, surprised, vision blurring, hurtling towards your climax, the build up scorching, impossibly long. ‘Sure you do. Or d'you want Santi to fuck you again, make you scream his name while he’s inside you, huh?’

Fuck, okay. Okay -

‘Yes, daddy -’ you breathe, pussy fluttering around him, the beginnings of your orgasm.

‘Santi? Or is it Frankie, baby? You want his mouth on you, want to feel him stretch you open? He’s big, isn’t he? Wanna see how he feels, if he fits like me?’

He is, you remember, he is, and you could try. If you can take Joel, you can take Frankie, and oh, what a thought -

Your body pulls tighter, aching, painful, and you cry out.

‘Shit -’ you moan, ‘Shit, Joel, I’m -’

‘Come, babygirl,’ he tells you. ‘Come all over my cock, princess. Get it nice and wet, just how daddy likes it.’

You burst aflame beneath him with a shout, body jerking as you hiss and gasp, gripping him to you as he fucks you through it. You whimper with every thrust as he keeps talking through gritted teeth, thrusting harder.

‘Yeah, that’s it. So sweet, baby. Good fuckin’ girl. You want them again, darlin’? Want to play with 'em? Want to watch 'em play with your daddy?’

A needy whine slips past your lips as you picture it; Frankie on his knees, Santi on all fours, and you grow even wetter at the thought, the slick of your orgasm and Joel’s words making the prettiest noises.

‘She likes that,’ Joel says, almost to himself, ‘Yeah, she likes that. Dirty girl. Dirty girl, wanting all three of us, wanting to watch, hm? Wanna touch, baby? Wanna see how it feels?’ He looks so fucked out on top of you that even you’re not sure if he knows what he’s saying, what he’s asking you. But you gasp out a yes anyway, something warm and quick trickling up your spine, tightening your cunt again.

‘Another one,’ he grunts, ‘Another one, darlin’, and I’ll give you what you want.’

You don’t need to be told twice. Your second orgasm rips through you lightning fast and white-hot, so good that you hear ringing in your ears, so tight that Joel stutters inside of you, groaning, breathing your name as he pumps and spills and twitches. You’re both breathing so heavily that it’s all you can do to lie there, licking your lips as Joel pulls out with a moan and flops beside you. A breathless little giggle escapes your parted lips.

Joel reaches across your body and tugs you by the arm until you’re nestled into his side. Too hot, too breathless, but you breathe him in all the same, tracing patterns on his chest.

The room is quiet as you both come down from your highs, your eyes falling closed as Joel presses a kiss to your hairline. Your brain tries its best not to think, not to read into it, but even through the exhaustion, his words come back to you.

Watch, touch.

You have to know. You have to ask, now, want to know, want it, want it, want it -

‘Do you - do you want to do it again?’ You stutter.

Joel puffs out a laugh to the ceiling.

‘You’re gonna have to give me at least ten minutes, baby.’

You laugh and nudge his side with your fist.

‘No,’ you smile, ‘No. The - the thing you said, about that night -’

He raises an eyebrow, and you bare your teeth awkwardly.

'You know - that night.'

‘Mm?’ Tease.

You lean further onto his chest and take his skin gently between your teeth. You nip, and he relents. You lean back slightly to look at him.

Joel smiles at you, crooks his head so he can nibble at your ear lobe.

‘Baby, I’d love to.’

The sound that leaves your lips is obscene, and you don’t care. Fuck, the thought of it. The three of them together, the four of you together.

‘All we gotta do is send the text,’ he says, ‘Could send it now and they’d be here in the hour.’ He chuckles. One of his hands moves down to your thigh, hooking it over his hip before moving to your ass to rock you against him. You groan into his shoulder. Your next question leaves your lips before you can even stop it.

‘Did you - did you mean what you said, about you and Santi and Frankie?’ You ask. It sounds clumsy, almost like you shouldn’t be asking. Fuck, maybe you should have waited for him to bring it up. You tense, waiting for his reaction.

Joel opens his eyes again with a small smirk, peeking down at you down his aquiline nose. His movements still.

‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’

You draw a quick breath and hold him closer. You won’t ask anymore questions. Try to push away thoughts of what Joel could do with his hands, his mouth, his cock, of what the two other men could do with theirs, what it would be like to watch, what it would be like to feel -

‘I’ve never… I’ve never done it before.’ Joel says, quietly.

You pull back from his chest and watch him watch you. His dark eyes are honest, wary, and a question forms on your lips. He said he had been with multiple people in the past, it was something he’d done, something he was clear he had enjoyed -

‘With a man. I’ve never… done anything with a guy.’

Your stomach swoops at his nervousness. You feel your brow crease, a hand reaching up to touch his cheek.

‘That’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘That’s… I didn’t realise, that’s all. ‘M sorry if I pushed you.’

Joel shakes his head. He hums beneath you, a deep rumble in his chest.

‘Y’didn’t. You ain’t.’

You stroke your thumb along the patches of his beard.

‘Do you… want to talk about it?’

Joel closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath.

‘I’ve thought about it. For a while. Watching people, watching you. I’m… curious.’

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

‘That’s normal, baby,’ you whisper, ‘So normal.’

Your mind flashes back, back to how tender he was with you, with Frankie. His warmth towards Pope as the four of you cleaned up afterwards, as you dressed in the comfiest clothes you could find. The way his eyes lingered on your body, Santi’s body, Frankie’s, the curiosity you glimpsed as you snacked and rehydrated, the goodbyes as they slipped out the door.

It makes sense.

And it’s even better to know that all this time you’ve been imagining it, he has, too.

‘I’d like to try it,’ he says, blinking at you. ‘With them. With you. If that’s okay?’

You clutch his face tighter, tender, warmth blooming in your chest at his trust. You smile wide at him, and he visibly relaxes. Tears threaten in your eyes.

‘Yes,’ you breathe, ‘Yes. Of course it is. I… it’d be more than okay.’

He swallows.

‘You sure?’

You untangle yourself from him as much as possible, but he keeps an iron grip on your waist. You settle on your elbow.

‘Of course I’m sure, baby,’ you soothe, ‘Of course I am. I’m glad you told me. It’d be - it’d be an honour - it’s very brave of you to -’

Joel cuts you off with a snort, pulling you roughly back against him. He holds you tight within his grasp.

‘Very brave -’ he chuckles.

‘It is,’ you insist, muffled against his chest, ‘It is, and if there’s anything you want to try -’

He pulls you up so your face is level with his, and shuts you up with a firm kiss. And when you lick him a little while later, tongue pressed up, pressing in to his tight ring of muscle, you find that there is plenty he wants to try.

And plenty you want to help him with.

———

Will greets you first at the bar that evening, and you quickly lose yourself to the rhythm of the night.

The five of you are tucked back into your usual booth, bottles and glasses crowding the table, the noise of other patrons bringing you closer together, knees knocking, hands over forearms to claw yourself further into the conversation. You talk for hours, work tales being swapped, gossip about old friends, former lovers. Will and Benny seem particularly interested in your romance with Joel, and you happily fill them in, telling them about the barbeque you had round Tommy and Maria’s, how you’re meeting Sarah next time she’s home from college, and how Joel will be away on a contract next week. Frankie and Santi listen in with gleaming eyes, half-smiles of their own, sharing secrets across the table that only you are privy to. It makes your stomach tighten, your panties damp.

And the way Frankie watches you, it’s like he knows.

Seats are switched throughout the night after bathroom breaks and drinks collections, but Pope always finds a way to be close to you - a hand on your thigh, a squeeze of your palm, the press of his shoulder against yours. He stacks a small pile of peanuts on the table between the two of you, hidden behind a glass, and at any opportune moment you can, you take turns flicking them at Will or Benny. With every small, yellow projectile that smacks against their chests, arms, sometimes even faces, Frankie racks up a tally on a napkin. The game is all but lost when Benny looks at up the ceiling and asks in disbelief whether it’s raining fucking peanuts, and you and Santi collapse into fits of giggles. Benny stares at you in blank confusion, furthered by Will’s growing rumble of laughter - until he finally fixes stoic Frankie with a betrayed look, noticing the tally half-hidden by his palm, and cries out an accusatory -

‘Is that you?’ Which sends Frankie over the edge, too.

When places switch again, Will makes sure to gather you in a headlock in his strong arms and grind his knuckles roughly into your scalp. You yelp with laughter, giggling against each other, sinking into the dirty leather as Will muses on how much of a bastard you are, wondering out loud how your skills as a former bartender allowed you to outsmart ex-Delta Force operators.

Frankie watches with his usual boyish charm, his eyes crinkling at the edges, warm and molten and wanting when they meet yours. Your tongue burns with the things you want to tell him, with what you and Joel had discussed, eventually in great detail, in bed at home. But you bite the words back, knowing what is and what isn't yours to share. Instead, you lean into Santi’s touch, scraping your nails along his jeans until he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, biting his lip in a wicked grin. He excuses himself soon after, and with his departure, Benny calls for a round of pool.

He’s already slipping out of the booth before you can protest, Will following closely behind. Frankie steps out, too, rounding your side and holding out a hand for you. You accept it, stepping out in front of him so you’re pressed chest to chest. He lifts his palm to your cheek, leaning in to press a kiss to your hairline. You press his bicep in thanks before turning back to the table, hinging at your hips to grab both his drink and yours, taking extra care to subtly grind your ass into his crotch. His palm comes to rest at the top of your thigh, holding you there for just a moment, before moving to your waist. You turn back to him. He leans in close.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do to us tonight, hermosa,’ he breathes into the conch of your ear, ‘But it’s working.’

You grin at him as he moves his hand from your waist to the plush flesh of your ass, squeezing gently before letting go. You take a sip from your beer, reaching up to take the cap from his curls and nestling it backwards on your own head.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His answering smile is dirty, thrilling, and he follows you as if on a leash to the pool table the brothers have secured.

Santi joins you soon afterwards, his cheeks a little flushed, a fresh drink in his hand. You’re split off into the most unfair teams possible; Will, Benny, and Frankie taking one cue, and you and Pope with the other. Frankie racks up the balls with swift, deft movements, taking the cue easily in his massive hands, the wood resting between his thick fingers. You feel your body warm as you watch him, still wearing his cap, trying to squeeze your thighs together inconspicuously. You bring your cool bottle to your neck as Pope winds an arm around you, letting his hand settle at your hip, stroking and pinching the flesh there. You don’t look at him, but you sigh deeply, and he lets his head knock against yours, pleased. With Frankie shooting first, there’s no great rush to grab your cue and be prepared.

You watch as he pots ball after ball, mouth curving in a playful scowl as he shoots you a grin after each one, moving around the table with so much grace and ease that it starts to make you a little dizzy. Benny and Will cheer him on with loud hoots and shouts, and Pope makes sure the two of you boo him like a pantomime villain with every flick of his wrist. When he finally fails to sink a shot, Pope passes you the cue, and you take your time lowering yourself to press your chest to the green felt, inhaling deeply. You’re warm, relaxed, a little buzzed, more than a little horny. You wiggle your ass a little, and Will laughs, shouting something about how your distraction technique won’t work, and he’s right. It quickly backfires when Frankie sweeps around the table, pressing one half of his body over yours as he directs you on how to hold the cue, how to position it, how to cradle it in your fingers like he does. When he’s sure you’ve got it, he breathes into your ear for you to pull your elbow back with just the right amount of leverage, and you try to ignore the goosebumps that break out along your neck and shoulder.

‘You’re ready,’ he whispers, and just as you begin to snap your wrist forwards, he presses his firm cock into your thigh.

Your quick inhale stutters your movement, and you watch as the tip of the cue just catches the edge of the ball, sending it spinning off into a barren corner of the table. You stand and spin to Frankie.

‘You asshole!’ you cry, indignant and hot, pointing a finger at him as he snatches his cap back from your head and retreats. ‘You - jogged me!’ Frankie spreads his hands in front of him, pouting, his bulge only just covered by the front of his button up.

‘I tried my best.’ He grins.

‘Don’t worry about it, kid,’ Will calls from the other side of the table, ‘Fish is known for being good with his hands. Even when he uses them for evil.’

The men laugh as Frankie flushes, knocking his fist into Will’s belly. Despite yourself, you laugh with them, enjoying watching him flustered as Will gasps out his laughter. Pope leans in close to whisper in your ear.

‘Good with his mouth, too.’ And all the air is sucked from your lungs as you feel your own face heat. Santi laughs louder next to you, taking the cue from your hands so you can grasp your bottle instead. You watch as Benny misfires, then Pope, still giggling at his own joke, before Frankie takes over again, sinking each one until only the white remains. Not that you notice, finding yourself now caught up in the way he bites and wets his lips, how plush they look, how they’d feel pressed to your thighs, your tits, your clit -

Benny snaps his fingers in front of your eyes, waving you back to reality.

‘Ground control to Major Loser,’ he grins, ‘Frankie whooped your ass, in case you weren't paying attention. It’s your round.’

You scoff playfully at him, whirling on your heel back towards the bar, but not before catching Pope’s eye again as he smirks at you, leaning against the table next to Frankie.

You flip them off as you work your way through the crowd.

When Frankie parks his truck outside Joel’s, all the lights in the house are off.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, and Frankie eyes the front door a little warily, eyes narrowing at the distance between. You giggle at him.

‘Frankie, baby, the boogeyman is not going to get me in the space between your truck and the door.’

He frowns at you all the same before unbuckling his own seatbelt and jumping out the driver’s side. You roll your eyes at him as he bounds round the front of the truck, swinging your door open and helping you out. He grins at you.

‘I know,’ he says, ‘I know, just - let me do it. Humour me.’

He swings your hands between you as you walk up the front yard, and you try to stifle your giggles as you slot the spare key into the lock. It’s unlike Joel to not wait up for you, but you’d made sure to tucker him out before you’d left. You’re glad he’s finally getting the rest he needed.

The door swings open in front of you into yawning darkness, and Frankie gives your hip a squeeze.

‘You’re sure Joel’s home?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ you nod, flicking the hallway light on. ‘He’s probably just asleep. It’s late, and -’

‘You probably spent the first half of the day making him see God, I suppose.’ He finishes for you. You smack his chest when you see his shit-eating grin, but aren’t able to wipe your own from your lips.

‘Obviously.’ You smirk.

Frankie laughs quietly as you shut the front door behind him, letting his hands wander from your hip to your waist, up and down the span of your back, pulling you towards him. You can still feel him, warm and half hard against you, and a soft moan slips from your mouth in response to his small grind. He smiles again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull to his chest as he rocks you back and forth, letting you feel everything while having nothing. Your own hands clutch at his shirt, shifting it higher so you can splay your palms over his bare abdomen. He looks down at you with soft, lazy eyes, and for a moment, you’re sure you’re going to kiss him. And when he leans in to whisper in your ear, you’re sure you’re going to wake Joel up and beg for him to take the two of you now. But instead, Frankie asks in a whisper -

‘Do you think Joel’d mind if I used his bathroom?’

You snort a laugh, pushing yourself away from him, and he giggles back at you.

‘Of course not,’ you say, pointing off down the hallway. ‘Just up there. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

He salutes as he backs away, almost knocking into the bannister of the stairs, and you have to clap your hands over your mouth to keep from laughing too loud. You step quietly into the kitchen to pour two glasses of water, but only get as far as reaching up into the cupboard when there are soft footsteps behind you. You grin, about to tease Frankie for not being able to find the bathroom on his own before warm, calloused hands are on you. Shameless, needy, groping up your top, tugging your bra down, cupping your breasts, tweaking your nipples.

Your body goes quickly liquid at the familiar touch, all smart quips dying in your throat as Joel ruts against you from behind, the weight of his hard cock hot and firm against your ass, barely disguised by his grey sweatpants. Your hands come to grip at the countertop, and you try to get the words out to tell him not now, Frankie’s here, but all that escapes is a moan.

‘’M glad you’re home, baby,’ he growls in your ear, fingers making quick work of your button and zipper. ‘Missed you. Dreamed of you. Did ya miss me, too?’ as he tugs your jeans down to the tops of your thighs.

‘Joel -’ you breathe, but you’re too slow, unable to process anything beyond the fingers he dips into your panties. Usually you love him like this, swaddled in sleep, desperate to bury himself inside you, and you’d let him take you anywhere, but not right here, not right now. Your body continues to betray you, pulsing out more of the slick that has kept your underwear damp all night - the touches beneath the table, the pressure of Frankie’s cock against your thigh during pool, him pressed up against you in the doorway. Everything you’d done with Joel earlier in the day, the way he’d come apart with your tongue and your fingers, the way he’d eaten you to the point of tears, all coming together to show him how you glisten in the low light of the kitchen. The two of you are insatiable, and he groans against you, offering you his fingers to suckle as he pulls the waistband of your panties down to join your jeans. You try to mumble out around him again - Joel, wait - but he’s too fast as he sinks himself inside of you, and every thought, every word, is wiped from your brain.

He sets a punishing pace from the off, and you take it easily, cheek pressed into the marble, head turned away from the door as you drool and whimper around him. The thick, heavy slide of his cock, covered in your slick, the wet sounds, the soft moans and pants that ricochet around the kitchen, and when he swirls a finger around your clit, your own sharp gasp heaves you to life.

‘Joel, wait - Frankie - Frankie’s here -’

But it’s too late, far too late, you realise, when you turn your head to the other side to find Frankie already stood in the entryway, leant against the frame like he’s been silently engaging you in casual conversation. Except he looks ravenous.

Joel groans from above you, tip kissing your cervix as he pumps in and out, fingers twitching over your clit to feel you tighten around him.

‘I know, baby,’ he groans, ‘He’s watchin’. See how he’s watchin’ you?’

It’s almost impossible to look, to watch Frankie take you in. The throb of Joel’s cock inside you, his fingers, the tightening knot that threatens to burst already, it’s making it hard to keep your eyes open.

‘That what you want, hermosa?’ Frankie asks.

You nod furiously against the marble, biting back a sob as your knees begin to give way, as you tighten, tighten, tighten, as your core locks down, your pussy growing hotter and wetter. Fuck, all that thinking, all that teasing means the build up has happened so impossibly fast, and you stumble towards the edge of the cliff already, aching for the fall.

‘Just like we said, huh?’ Joel hums. ‘You wanna be watched, don’t ya, baby girl?’

‘Yes - daddy -’ you choke out, and he hums again, this time speaking to Frankie.

‘Hear that? Want you to watch. Be a good boy, and watch.’

Frankie nods quickly, every bit the soldier; his jaw set, eyes black, curls peeking out from under his cap. In this moment, he doesn’t look like your Frankie. He looks cool, almost detached if not for the burning of his eyes. And he watches every movement, every part of your skin Joel touches, everything that is revealed to him, like he’s trying to commit it to absolute memory. The sounds, the way Joel’s cock glistens as it stretches out of you, the breath that is punched from your lungs as he pushes back in. It’s like it’s the first time he’s seen this happen.

But then, you realise, it is.

This is the quiet, obedient Frankie who kneeled behind the door. The Frankie who didn’t move an inch, the Frankie who could do nothing but listen as the three of you fucked each other. The Frankie who curled himself over your hand as he came, hot shocks of arousal and humiliation rocking his body. And now, he gets to watch.

But oh, how you wish he could touch. How you wish he’d come closer, away from the doorframe, how you wish he’d run his hands over your body, undress you, hold you, lick and suck and kiss you, how he could fuck your mouth as Joel fucked your tight cunt until your throat was raw, how you’d take him so deep, as deep as you could, until there would be nothing left, nothing more for you to feel or think about than what went on beyond the two men and you. You watch as his eyes rake over Joel, over you. How they track every movement, the curl of Joel’s fingers against your clit, how you gasp and choke, how Joel grits his teeth as he pounds into you, getting close now, feeling you tighten and leak and flutter around him, bunching your shirt up your back so he can press a hot kiss to your spine.

‘Give it to me,’ he groans, ‘Give it to me, baby, come on. You’ve got it, you can do it. Come for me.’

You heave a broken, high pitched whine at his words, and Frankie’s eyes snap to yours. His lips part in a breath, his only visible reaction, but it’s enough. Like the command has slipped from his lips too, your vision whitens and your back arches, fingers scrabbling against the smooth surface beneath you as you constrict so tightly around Joel you can feel the way you have to stretch again to take him in.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Such a good girl. So pretty, baby, so good. Now, tell me - tell me where you want it -’

You moan again, eyes flicking back to Frankie when they roll from the back of your skull. The thought crosses your mind, but you can’t find the words, can’t feel your legs, only the grip of Joel's fingers as he changes tack - ‘Tell me, or I’ll decide.’

You gasp out a fuck, forehead pressed against the counter, trying to decide whether you’re brave enough to say it, brave enough to ask -

‘Please -’

But it doesn’t come from you. You roll your head on the marble to find Frankie stepping slowly into the kitchen, cheeks pink, chest rising and falling quickly.

‘I can - let me help -’ Fuck. Fuck. You try to twist to gauge Joel's reaction, but his mind is made up so quickly you only get the chance to feel desperately empty before he tells Frankie to kneel.

The younger man drops to his knees beside you m, in front of Joel, chest heaving now, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously - and you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him so bad, but the thought is quickly whisked away as Joel steps closer, fisting his thick cock in his hand.

‘You want this?’ He grits. Frankie nods eagerly, transfixed by the man above him, eyes flicking between Joel’s and the swollen head of his cock, soaked with your slick and cum, dribbling the precursor of Joel’s own release. ‘Show me.’

Frankie’s mouth falls open instantly, his tongue sliding past his lips to welcome the tip of Joel’s cock. You moan, knees finally giving out, landing next to Frankie. He doesn’t take his eyes off Joel.

The older man gasps out a curse at the sight, before ropes of thick, milky cum spurt from his tip onto Frankie’s tongue, filling his mouth, weaker pulses landing on his chin as Joel squeezes the last of his release out. You tear your eyes from Frankie to the man above you, the way he pants, eyes aflame, jaw slack.

‘Swallow.’

You whip back round to Frankie to see his throat bob as he follows the instruction, and he opens his mouth again to show Joel that he’s done exactly as he asked.

‘Good boy,’ he drawls, swiping a thumb against his chin to collect the remnants of his spend before offering it to you. You open your mouth just as eagerly, but Joel seems to think twice. He spreads it across one cheek, and then the other, painting you, before placing the digit firmly on your tongue, allowing your tongue to lathe the taste of him from the pad. Frankie leans towards you, and then you feel his tongue, warm and wet against your cheek, licking away at the cum that Joel spread there. Joel chuckles at him.

‘Desperate for more.’

Frankie hums against you, tongue now flicking at the corner of your lips. Joel raises an eyebrow at you.

‘What are you waiting for, sweetheart?’ he purrs, ‘Show Frankie how well he did.’

You twist your head to Frankie’s, one hand going to the back of his head, fisting his curls, the other tracing the waistband of his jeans, eager fingers feeling the warm skin there, trying to touch further, trying to reach him. You lick into his mouth, tongue grazing his teeth as you palm him over the denim, and he moans against you. You retract your hand from his curls and start at his fly before a sharp, trilling noise makes you flinch back. His phone rings in his back pocket.

‘Ignore it, don’t worry about it,’ he says, pulling you back towards him, his mouth soft and urgent against yours, your fingers clumsy at the front of his jeans, twisting in the material, against metal, and fuck -

‘Why do you have so many fucking buttons?’

He laughs, breathy, exasperated into your hair.

‘It’s the - it’s the fucking style - there’s no zipper, it’s just buttons -’

You giggle as well, the ringing of his phone chiming off as you hear Joel say ‘just buttons?’ from behind you.

You manage to get two undone before his phone begins to ring again, and this time he breaks the kiss to drag it out off his pocket and silence it. He glances at the screen, hisses a fuck, and bites his bottom lip. You stall your movements, frowning at him.

‘You okay?’

‘One sec -’

He declines the call, but you see he’s missed messages as well. His brow pulls tighter as he reads them, and he scrubs an irritated hand over his face before looking back at you, his eyes dark, apologetic, pissed off.

‘I gotta go,’ he says, forehead knocking against yours before he’s wobbling to his feet, breathless, ‘I gotta - it’s Benny, I don’t know - I don’t know what it is, but -’ His phone pings with another text, and he breathes out a fuck’s sake. ‘I’m sorry -’

‘Hey,’ Joel says softly, and you look back up at him. He still looks as wrecked as before, but he’s straightened himself out and his gaze is softened by concern. Without looking, he holds a hand out to pull you up off the floor, and you gratefully accept, pulling up your jeans. ‘It’s okay, really, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry - what’s happened?’

Frankie relaxes, exhales.

‘Bar fight. Benny and Will were still there when we left. Looks like Benny’s managed to piss the wrong people off.’ he pauses. ‘Again.’

Joel chuckles, lands a hand on his shoulder.

‘Got a little brother just like it. You want us to come with?’

Frankie looks from you to Joel, and shakes his head.

‘No,’ he smiles, ‘Thanks, that’s alright. Can’t be getting distracted on my way there. Won’t be much help in jail.’

You grin at him, straightening his shirt, his curls, and he lets you fuss. You swipe your thumb at the corner of his mouth, and he flushes.

‘Are you sure?’ You ask.

He huffs a laugh, adjusting himself through his jeans, and you pout a little at his discomfort.

‘No,’ he admits, ‘But I’ll be alright. Honestly.’

‘Okay,’ you say, ‘Okay.’

He smiles again, dipping to kiss your cheek before shyly, hesitantly doing the same to Joel. You watch the smile that blooms across the older man’s lips before you find yourself mirroring it.

‘I’ll walk you to your truck.’ Joel says. Frankie nods gratefully, and you hum as Joel squeezes your waist before heading towards the front door.

‘See you next time, baby.’ You murmur to Frankie.

‘Next time.’ He whispers back, grinning and turning to follow Joel. He makes it to the open doorway before you remember.

‘Frankie -’ you call, and he turns, framed by the night behind him. You make a motion at your crotch, and he cocks his head at you. ‘Buttons.’ You stage-whisper, and he laughs as he adjusts himself, refastening the two you managed to get undone.

‘See you soon, hermosa,’ he says softly, and you smile as he follows Joel out to his truck.

You can’t sleep.

You’d bored quickly of tossing and turning, Joel dead to the world beside you, and had slunk downstairs for a glass of water. There’s a niggling feeling in your chest, something left unsatisfied. Guilty that, yet again, Frankie had not been given what he deserved, guilty that you hadn’t had time to see it through. And you just want to know if he’s okay, if he’s safe. You shoot him a text, leant against the marble he had watched you get fucked over less than two hours ago. Just a quick hey, are you okay?

You bite at your thumb, tap out another one - did you get home safe? He replies almost instantly.

Hey. I did. All good. I’m great. Had a great time

Then -

Thank you

You chew your lip a while, frowning, trying to work out if you believe him or not. God, texting sucks. Maybe you should call. You should call, just to check, even though he stayed, even though he watched, even though he said yes, even with the text -

But Frankie takes the decision from you with the next message, a voicenote minutes long. You wind yourself up for whatever it could possibly be, but nothing prepares you for the breathy moan that emanates loudly from your phone, so surprised that you almost drop the device. It’s followed by another, and the slick sound of what you can only assume to be Frankie’s fist fucking his cock, filtered through his quick, hot breaths. You close your eyes in rapt attention, dropping a hand to cup your sex as you listen to him whimper, as you listen to him whisper how good it feels, how he wants you, how he can still taste Joel in his mouth, how he’s about to come, how he’s coming -

It takes you an embarrassingly short amount of time to follow him, chest heaving against the cool marble of the counter top, legs shaky as you stand up right.

There’s not a peep from upstairs. You decide to let Joel sleep this one out.

You’ll send him the audio in the morning.

———

Work is slow, and is only sped up by being, in Joel’s words, an insufferable tease.

You’d bounded around the bedroom this morning, still secretly thrilled with the voicenote from last night, not heeding Joel’s pleas to come back to bed as he watched you don his favourite matching set, stockings, a tight little pencil skirt and blouse, before pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his mouth and floating out the door to work. You made sure to send him a pretty little picture of your dripping cunt on your lunch break, quickly followed by Frankie’s voicenote, and to your delight, receive a video of him coming hard in return.

You bite your lip, squirming at your desk, sure you’ll soak through your skirt when he sends you a follow up message soon after.

You got plans tonight?

No? You shoot back.

Good. Stay free, baby

And oh, you don’t plan on being anything but before he leaves tomorrow.

———

When you get home from work, Joel is waiting.

Waiting conspicuously in a pressed white dress shirt and slacks, a couple buttons undone so you’re greeted with the warm sight of his chest as he opens the door. He looks… divine. And he smells just as good, too. You press your lips to his quickly.

‘You look gorgeous,’ you smile, palm against his chest, one hand on his cheek to smooth the hair of his moustache. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Come upstairs,’ he says, smiling. ‘I wanna show you something.’

You raise an eyebrow, all manner of possibilities flashing through your mind before you drop your bag in the hallway and take his outstretched hand.

With one hand on your hip and another over your eyes, Joel guides you towards the bed. His fingers are warm and clammy over your eyelids, and you giggle as you both stumble forwards, the shadow of a bitten laugh trickling into your ear from behind you.

‘What are you doing?’

‘One more second, ‘n you’ll find out.’

Joel brings you to a gentle stop before positioning you at just the angle he wants before taking his hand away from your face. He chuckles to find your eyes still squeezed shut.

‘Open your eyes, baby.’

You blink them open, taking a long moment to realise what it is he’s showing you.

Laid out on the bed is a beautiful short and silken black dress.

A short breath bursts from your lips as you step forwards to take the hem delicately in your fingers.

‘Joel…’ you whisper, accusatory. It feels like water, so luxurious beneath your fingertips that you want to scold him for buying it. But when you turn and find his eyes bright, excited, soft, the guilt dies easily in your chest. ‘It’s beautiful.’

He shrugs, trying to disguise how pleased he is with your reaction.

You step back towards him, taking his face in your hands, pressing kisses anywhere you can.

‘Thank you,’ you murmur, ‘Thank you, baby, thank you. You really didn’t have to, but thank you.’

He scoffs lightly against your lips, hands gripping your hips again.

‘’Course I did,’ he grins. A dirty, secret little thing. ‘You needed something to wear for tonight.’

A worry tugs in your chest. Tonight? Have you forgotten something? Fuck - should you have bought him something, too? It can’t be the anniversary of anything, you haven’t even -

As though he’s read your thoughts, Joel pulls you closer, one hand drifting lower to palm your ass.

‘We’re going on a date.’

‘A date?’

Mhm, he hums against your mouth.

‘Surprise date.’

‘You bought this for a date?’

You give him your most serious look, head tilted, movements stilled. Pink flushes up from beneath his shirt collar.

‘Yeah, darlin’. Special dress for a special girl.’

You frown a little.

‘Where are we going where I’ll need to dress like that?’

Joel bites his lip.

‘Nice restaurant. We’re all getting dressed up.’

‘All?’

Joel extracts himself from your fingers, moving to fix his slicked back hair.

‘Joel. All?’

He shrugs again, looks at you over his shoulder in the mirror.

‘I had some help choosing the dress.’

Fuck. Fuck. Heat flashes between your thighs so quickly that you sit down heavily on the edge of the mattress. Joel smirks at you through the glass as you try and regulate your breathing. Your heart thrums in your chest as the thoughts clash through your head - Frankie on his knees behind the door, his wide, hungry eyes, Frankie on his knees in front of Joel, the drip of your cunt onto the floor, the full, overwhelming feeling of Joel claiming you after Santi, Santi’s fingers on your jaw, you look at your daddy when you come for me -

Joel squats down in front of you, his knees popping, two fingers lifting your chin.

‘Need to get ready, sugar,’ he drawls, ‘Rude to keep the boys waiting.’

You suck in a hot breath, eyes glazed, body warm and fluid already.

‘Are - are they coming back here?’

‘Not tonight,’ he murmurs. ‘Want you to myself before I head out in the morning.’

He stands as you blink up at him, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth

‘Soon, baby,’ he reassures, ‘You’ll have us soon.’

———

Joel holds your hand as you descend the marble steps into the sunken restaurant. It’s gorgeous - classy - maybe a little too much, but you can’t find the wherewithal to care when he leads you to your table. Frankie and Santi are already seated and looking equally as handsome. They stand as you approach, Frankie flushing as he takes you in, kissing your cheek, Pope letting out a low whistle as he does the same.

You talk over glasses of wine, nibbles of bread, and your starter course; conversation often interrupted by anecdotes and jokes and observations of other patrons that definitely could have waited til later. Joel fills the boys in on the contract he’ll be away on up in Tulsa until late next week, and Pope says he will be flying back to Colombia for a few days to straighten out a couple loose ends with his last contract. You frown at him, having not been aware of this most recent development, but he’s quick to assure you that it is just that. Paperwork and documents he needs to ensure can be sealed away, picking up a couple of things from the Embassy, catching up with a couple of old colleagues, and then heading home. The boys never really talk about exactly what went down those years ago when they lost Tom, and frankly you’re not sure if you want to know. From what they have said, it was rash, greedy, and all but fucked from the start. Not something you’re particularly keen on imagining. But you’re glad that, this time, he’ll be safe and keeping away from it.

Joel and Santi share a glance over your head, and you realise you should have known. Should have known they’d be plotting and scheming.

It doesn’t take as long as it did the first time to set out the rules.

With the older men away, you and Frankie are free to spend your time as you see fit. Neither of you need to be looked after, neither of you need to be kept an eye on, but Santi and Joel phrase the opportunity to spend time together as more of a challenge. To see how you can work each other up, how well you can behave without either of them there to tell you what to do and how to do it. You’re grinning into your wine as you imagine it, all of the things you can do without actually fucking, until Joel halts your train of thought.

‘There’s one rule,’ he says. You pause mid-sip. He spears a piece of asparagus with his fork, bringing it to his mouth. ‘You can’t touch each other.’

You swallow, confused, looking across to Frankie, who is suddenly unable to meet your eye, and then to Pope, who watches the two of you with a cruelly delighted smirk.

‘We - what?’ You ask, confused.

‘Can’t touch,’ Joel says again, ‘’s your only rule. Dinner, drinks, movies, hell, sleepin’ in the same bed is fine. You just can’t touch.’

You stare at him. This is it. He’s lost his damn mind.

‘Little challenge for you, baby girl,’ he says, ‘I know Frankie can do it. This one’s for you.’

You open your mouth, about to protest how that can’t possibly be fair before snapping your jaw closed again. Joel watches, amused. This is not an argument you will win.

‘Fine.’ You say, even as Santi snickers at the fact that it’s evidently not. You decide on a change of tact. ‘And myself?’ Frankie finally looks up at you, eyes wide. Your lips curl in a pleased smile as Santi takes a steadying sip of his drink.

‘You can touch yourself, darlin’’ Joel says, unfazed, ‘Never said you couldn’t do that.’

You nod, gears turning. An idea forming, one you tamp down by resting your hand on Joel’s thigh.

‘Was Benny okay last night?’ You ask Frankie, changing the subject. Your fingers begin their slow and steady stroke up and down Joel’s thigh as you watch the younger man flush.

‘Yeah,’ he nods, ‘He was only arrested for starting a bar fight -’

Your hand pauses only briefly on Joel’s thigh.

‘He was arrested?’

Frankie grins.

‘Yep. Not the first time. One day he might learn his lesson.’

You chuckle along with Joel and Santi.

‘Was he okay?’

‘Always is,’ Frankie says, ‘Lucky motherfucker. You should see the other guy.’

You smile, scraping your nails along Joel’s pants now, pleased when he shifts in his seat. He leans in close to your ear.

‘Knock it off, princess. I know exactly what you’re tryna do.’

You raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Never said I couldn’t touch you, daddy.’

You turn back to face Frankie, and he eyes you suspiciously.

‘Don’t miss those days,’ Joel says, and Frankie’s eyes flick to him. ‘Tommy straightened out once he met Maria. Think the worst time I had to bail him out was the night’a my 36th birthday. He near caused a riot at some bar downtown. They still won't let him back in.’

‘Can imagine Tommy raining hell down on ‘em,’ Pope says, beside you. ‘He and Benny would make a hell of a team.’

Joel chuckles.

‘Sure would,’ he says, and you slide your palm over to cup him through his pants. He’s rock hard, cock twitching at your touch. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. ‘She made him into a better man, my sister-in-law. Keeps him far outta trouble.’

His hand finds your own thigh beneath the table, squeezing as Santi begins to regale a story from his younger days with the boys. He starts the same ministrations as you, stroking, scraping, higher and higher, up to where you’re dripping, soaking yourself -

‘Joel.’ You whisper, something urgent in your voice. Why isn’t he stopping?

You’re suddenly nervous at the fact you’d decided to forego any underwear for the sake of the dress, before realising that is exactly what Joel had wanted. Like he knew you’d be running your hand up and down his thigh at the table, like he knew you’d be teasing him. Like he knew he could not only tease right back, but win the whole damn game. Smug bastard. He can read you like a book.

He leans in close to murmur into the conch of your ear.

‘Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby,’ as he pushes your dress higher to cup your sex. You clench your jaw as he chuckles underneath his breath, feeling how wet you are, how much more slick spills out at the pressure he applies.

His fingers move up to circle your clit gently, and you let out a shaky breath. You watch him from the corner of your eye, his chin in his fist, eyes sparkling as he listens to and watches the two other men, as his movements against your cunt grow firmer, faster. You reach for your wine glass, eyes flicking to Frankie, only to find him looking at you, eyes bright with amusement. You narrow your eyes, and Joel leans in again.

‘Good girl, he says, ‘You’re gonna keep looking at Frankie, and I’m gonna make you come like this. And next time, you’re not gonna play any of your games in the middle of a restaurant.’

You grit your teeth against the whimper that fights to escape as quiet falls at the table, the conversation quickly forgotten as Frankie leans back in his chair, smirking, watching intensely. You don’t break eye contact as Santi’s hand drifts to the soft flesh of your thigh, drawing goosebumps as it nears Joel’s, as he traces the seam of your cunt, smearing the wetness around your skin. You don’t even look when Pope brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking the tips before releasing them with a lewd pop.

‘Good enough to eat.’

Your cunt throbs in response, breathing coming more laboured as Joel’s fingers work you tighter, tighter, slipping away to hook your thigh out wider, only to be replaced by Santi’s. Once he’s satisfied with your new position, he slips his hand beneath Pope’s, working the digits easily into your pussy, pumping in and out, curling to find that sweet spot within you. A small, desperate noise escapes you, and you set your glass down, your drink forgotten as you clutch at the napkin closest to you, body burning, buzzing, throbbing with pleasure. It’s too much, and it’s not enough.

You break eye contact with Frankie, holding your breath and biting your lip so hard you’re sure you’ll either pass out or draw blood.

‘No, baby,’ Joel rumbles into your hair, ‘Keep looking at Frankie. He’s gonna watch you come like this.’ You moan quietly again, meeting Frankie’s eyes, hot and close, so close.

Santi leans in so you can feel his hot breath against your cheek, goading, teasing -

‘Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.’

Your orgasm clatters through you, the tightly bound knot bursting as you lean forward onto the table, trying to stop your body from twitching. You feel yourself tighten and clench around Joel’s fingers, feel your thighs grow wetter, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as Pope looses a quiet groan. The fire and heat of it make it almost impossible to keep quiet, a moan slipping past your lips as Joel retracts his fingers too quickly to pat you on the back in some kind of misleading gesture. Santi keeps his fingers pressed to your clit for as long as possible, letting you ride it out, before circling it again.

A gasped fuck passes your lips, and you slam your fist down onto the table, clattering the silverware and glasses. The action draws a chuckle from Santi and Joel, and sharp looks from the two tables closest to you.

You cough a little, trying to affect the pretence of choking, spluttering, anything that doesn’t look like you just came in the middle of a restaurant.

When you haul your body back to sit upright, Joel moves his hand to your thigh, and Santi follows suit. Their fingers are wet against you, and you try not to look, try not to feel it, but it’s impossible. The slick feeling, the heat, the pressure. You could go again.

But, god, your throat is so dry.

As if on cue, the waitress appears at your shoulder to refill your water. You try to clear your throat to express your gratitude before noticing the deep red flush clawing up her neck, her gaze drawn to each hand still splayed on your thigh, dress rucked a little higher than it should be. You smile sheepishly at her, finally whisper a thank you.

When she leaves the table, you heave a deep breath, your head in your hands.

‘Almost.’ Joel whispers in your ear.

You resist the urge to flip him off, and instead decide the best way to get a hold of yourself is to head to the bathroom. Clean yourself up, splash a little cold water on your face.

‘Excuse me,’ you murmur, voice hoarse and strained, and Frankie can’t help the smile that reaches his eyes. Looking to Joel and Santi, it appears they feel the same way. You grin despite yourself as you stand on unsteady legs, Joel’s hands shooting out to steady you as you giggle at the three of them, enjoying their favourite game.

‘Fuck you guys,’ you laugh as you turn on your heel, and they mirror your chuckles.

You’re almost to the door of the restroom when your waitress catches your eye. You try to smile at her and glide past without drawing any more attention to yourself, but fail.

‘Ma’am,’ she calls softly, stepping just in front of you. Your stomach twists. Fuck, she knows. She knows, and she’s gonna kick you all out, you’re gonna get arrested - ‘Are you alright?’

You blink at her, surprised. And then it clicks. One woman, surrounded by three men. The hands on your thighs, your dress. Three men who have been talking intently, possessively, obviously, even if they can’t be heard. You exhale.

‘Oh no, it’s - yes. Thank you for checking. That’s - really kind of you. I’m fine. We’re friends - I mean - it’s complicated - but it’s nothing to worry about.’

It’s complicated? Why the fuck did you say that? You twist your fingers as you try and work out how to extricate yourself from the hole you’ve dug, but your mind draws a blank. You pray she missed your phrasing, her eyes searching your face as you give her your warmest smile. It’s only a moment before she returns it, even brighter.

‘Oh, like a - what is it - a polyamorous thing? That’s neat. You get it, cowgirl,’ she grins, before clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ she gasps, ‘I’m so sorry, that was so unprofessional -’

You laugh, somewhat relieved, placing a gentle hand on her arm - it soothes her.

‘No, please,’ you giggle, ‘It’s fine, really.’

She peels her fingers back from her lips nervously and massages her temples.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she whispers, before meeting your eye again. ‘I’m sorry. But as long as you’re good. You know, taken care of.’ You watch as she cringes at herself. You reach out again to press her bicep.

‘Really, it’s fine,’ you say, glancing back to your table. You feel… warm as you look over at the three of them - relaxed, laughing. Warm at how easily you can all move back and forth in this dynamic. Warm at the feel of the slick around the tops of your legs. ‘I’m very well taken care of. And it’s really good of you to check.’

She smiles at you again as you step away towards the bathroom.

‘Oh, not at all,’ she says, bashful. ‘I’m glad. You guys have fun.’

The rest of the night passes easily, wrapped in conversation and good food. Jokes are whipped across the table so fast that the four of you cackle with laughter, the air sizzling with good humour and lightness. Joel has his hands on you whenever he can, and when you finally leave the restaurant just before closing time, Pope holds you tenderly, kisses both cheeks, and murmurs that he hopes you learned your lesson. You smack his arm and tell him to be safe in Colombia. Frankie does the same, but departs with a remark about how beautiful you looked instead - ‘especially when you come, hermosa’ he adds.

Joel makes sure you remember what he taught you at the table, taking the time to rock you through orgasm after orgasm in his bed until you’re in tears, until he’s sure the neighbours can hear you calling yes daddy, thank you daddy, I’m sorry daddy over the lawn.

He pulls you close afterwards, pressing kisses to any slither of skin he can, telling you how well you did, how proud you make him, how good you can be when you try. He only leaves to head through to the bathroom to turn on the shower, making you promise to join him when you can rouse yourself from the snuggly duvet. You don’t take much convincing.

Once you can hear him humming under the flow of water, you pad downstairs to the bag you’d left in the hallway yesterday. You root around in it before finding what you need, clutching it to your chest with a thrill before retreating back to Joel’s bedroom. You bury it in his suitcase, underneath at least a day’s worth of clothes, before stripping and joining him in the shower.

———

When you wake the next morning, Joel’s suitcase is already zipped shut, and the smell of coffee is drifting up the stairs.

You find him sat at the breakfast table, staring out into the weak morning sunshine, a steaming mug already set down for you across from him. You drift past him, a hand trailing from one shoulder, over his broad back, to the next, tracing the lines of your favourite plaid shirt, before pressing a kiss to his temple.

You sit quietly in each other’s company, the silence slowly turning to low conversation. What route he’ll be taking, where he’ll be staying, what the job will involve, what the people are like. What your work week looks like, what the book you’re reading is about, what you’ll do with him gone. You settle your chin on your palm.

‘Any other rules I should know about?’

Joel looks back at you with amusement written all over his face.

‘No. Jus’ don’t try anything at dinner again. Or do. I’m always happy to remind you.’

You giggle, and he grins back, all white teeth and crinkly eyes.

‘You know, even the waitress asked if I was okay afterwards.’

He grunts, enough of a question in it for you to continue.

‘I mean, I don’t think she saw anything go down. But she saw me with you guys and asked if I was okay.’

Joel raises his eyebrows.

‘What do you mean?’

You falter.

‘I guess… you know. Me, with you guys. Just making sure nothing - weird was going on.’

‘Weird?’

‘Bad.’ You say. Joel’s eyes soften, but his brow furrows.

‘I said no, of course. That we’re all friends. I don’t know. I rambled. She asked - she asked whether it was a polyamorous thing,’ you shrug.

‘’N what did you say?’

Something about the way Joel asks the question catches you off guard. A little brusque, a little too quick off his tongue. Your eyes narrow slightly.

‘Nothing,’ you admit, ‘I didn’t want to get into the semantics of what we do with a stranger. And - I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know if that is what it is.’

‘It something you’re interested in?’

You blink at him. He’s not looking at you, his jaw set, body tense. You feel your own jaw clench.

‘Is it something you’re interested in?’

Joel chews the side of his cheek, brow knitted as he looks out to the garden into the morning sunlight.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘Not really thought about it before.’

You soften at the way his body deflates. Remember this is just as fresh for him as it is for you. You nod, reach out to take his massive hand in yours. His eyes swing back to you, and you squeeze his fingers.

‘You don’t have to think about it,’ you reassure him, ‘All of this is new. All of it. And if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk about it. But -’ you say, reaching to hold his other hand, too, ‘I want you to know none of it changes how I feel about you. You are enough for me. You will always be enough for me.’

Joel searches your face, quiet and serious. You lift his hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles.

‘I love you.’ You say, softly.

There’s no sound through the quiet dawn of the world but a quiet intake of breath from Joel across the table. Your eyes flick up to him at the sound, to the brows slightly further up his tan forehead, his wide, surprised, brown eyes. And you realise that it’s slipped from you, aloud, for the first time. All that time spent thinking it, knowing it, feeling it, but those words in that order have been yet to pass either of your lips. In the conversations between sharing spaces, meeting families, spending time with friends, you’d forgotten to put into words what you’d assumed Joel already knew.

I love you.

You still, his hands unmoving before your lips, releasing a quiet exhale of your own.

‘I love you,’ you say again, even softer. And then, through heat rising in your chest - ‘You don’t have to say it back. If you’re not ready yet - you don’t have to ever say it back if you don’t want to -’

He grips your hands tight.

‘I love you.’ he says, gravelly and warm. And you believe him. See it in all its molten gold truth in his eyes. I love you.

You can’t help the delighted little laugh that falls from your lips. The same sound slips from Joel, and you sit, giggling and grinning at each other, in love, unaware of the minutes that tick by. You bite your lip.

‘Does that mean you’re my boyfriend now?’

Joel baulks at you, laughter frozen on his lips. Your heart squeezes, joy almost overtaken by nerves.

‘You mean - did I never ask you that?’

You shake your head slowly.

Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth. Something passes over his features; embarrassment, shame -

‘I’m sorry,’ he says lowly, a flush colouring his cheeks, ‘I’m sorry - I just - I assumed -’ he ducks his head away from you, ‘What an ass -’

You giggle at him, and he fixes you with his best puppy dog eyes.

‘Joel,’ you smile, ‘It’s okay, honestly -’

But he shakes his head.

‘No,’ he winces, ‘Sarah would be - so disappointed in me if she knew. She -’ he fixes you with an apologetic stare again, ‘She knew I loved you before you did. My God. And Tommy - Tommy would be wringing my neck, and my Momma - she raised me better than this -’

‘Joel,’ you laugh, standing from your chair to circle the table. Instinctively, he spreads his thighs for you to sit, and you settle down onto him, your legs perpendicular to his. You thread your arms around his neck, holding him close, and a warm palm comes to pet the small of your back. ‘Relax. Please don’t worry about it,’ you press a kiss to the patch in his beard, and he leans his head into you, eyes closed. ‘Besides. I kinda assumed it, too.’

His eyes open, so full of warmth, love.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘Do ya wanna be my girlfriend?’

You huff a laugh into his neck, resting on his shoulder.

‘Baby,’ you tease, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

You spend a little while longer like that, curled up in his lap like a cat, sharing kisses and giggles, until Joel checks his watch and sighs. You clamber off him and follow him upstairs, leaning against the doorframe as he makes his final checks.

‘Joel,’ you call softly, hesitating. You cringe in the doorway. ‘Is it - seeing Frankie for dinner tonight, is that - is that still okay?’

He smiles and steps towards you, gathering you in his arms.

‘You know what the limits are,’ he says into your hair. ‘I trust you. ’F I didn’t want you to do something, you’d have known about it before dinner. ’Sides,’ he says, ‘You’ll look good together at that table. I’ll be thinkin’ bout it while I’m away.’

You snort and rest your forehead against his chest, breathing his scent in.

‘Just wanted to check.’ You mumble. Joel presses a kiss to your hair, rocking you side to side.

‘I love you.’ He says.

‘Love you too.’ You whisper.

Minutes later, you watch his truck peel away from the house, waving through the rays of sunlight now peeking out from the trees. He waves back, his arm out the driver’s side window, until the truck disappears from view. You swallow the lump in your throat, wash the coffee mugs, gather your clothes, and lock Joel’s front door behind you.

———

Joel calls you later in the afternoon to let you know he’s arrived safe. And Frankie texts to let you know he’s picking you up at seven.

When you get home from work, you busy yourself with a shower, with laundry you’ve held off, with tidying the house, and when you’re settled, ready, you call Joel again. Just to hear his voice, just to know he’s eaten. He chuckles a melody down the line at your fussing, but before he has to hang up, he lets slip that he misses you already, just as much.

When seven rolls around, you feel warm, giddy, nerves fluttering in your stomach as you wait for the sound of tyres outside.

Frankie greets you at your door, relaxed in a t-shirt that strains across his arms, his signature cap, and a beaming smile. You melt a little at the sight of him, so boyish, so bashful, so handsome, that you have to forcefully remind yourself of the rules. No touching, which must surely extend to no kissing. Still, as though he can’t help himself, he keeps a palm on the small of your back as he leads you into the small restaurant he’s chosen and plays with your fingers while you’re sat at your table.

You eat and talk, laughing and smiling like you always do. He asks about work, the projects you’re working on, and you fill him in on all the office gossip. How one of the line managers got fired last week, how Trisha from accounting is pregnant. He asks question after question until you laugh and remind him that you want to talk about him as well, and he flushes shyly. You ask about Lucia, about work, about flying again. He tells you about the places he’s been, the people he’s taken there, and one nightmare trip from last week where one woman refused to get in the helicopter, too scared to fly, until she had to be told that it was part of the proposal her boyfriend had planned.

You order gelato for dessert and share it with two spoons, giggling as you feed it to each other. You both get a text from Santi, a selfie of him sipping a beer, looking warm and delicious. You get a text from Joel, too, a picture of him straight out of the shower which sets your cunt throbbing, hoping you’re having a good night.

Frankie insists on settling the check and walks you back to his truck with a warm palm still on your skin. He opens the door for you, waiting for you to settle in your seat before he shuts it and crosses to the driver’s side.

He drives you to a spot overlooking the city, and you stay in the cab, seatbelts unbuckled, turned towards each other, swapping stories like teenagers at a sleepover. You try not to think too hard as the night settles in around you. Try not to watch his hands, his thick fingers, the way his arms bunch and flex, how strong his thighs look, how good he smells. But it’s so hard, so hard when he’s right across from you, smiling, eyes trailing over your body, getting caught on your lips, watching the way your limbs are draped in his truck. The way he’s looking at you makes it hard to remember the rules, hard to resist leaning over the console and pressing your mouth to his, especially when he lowly confesses how badly he wants to kiss you.

You huff a breathless laugh, looking away from him out to the shimmering skyline outside the window screen. Try to distract yourself with how the distant lights of the city shimmer like moonlight on water, how the structures of the skyscrapers reach up to the night flights swooping over the horizon. Something as far away from your body as possible, so you don’t have to think about Frankie’s warm, broad chest, what he would sound like moaning against you.

‘I wish you would,’ You whisper. When you turn back to look at Frankie, he is already watching you. Pressed against the driver’s side door, mouth slightly open, his eyes sparkling and dark. ‘You could kiss me.’

His mouth closes with a gentle snap of his teeth, and he shakes his head.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

You nod, eyes finding the skyline again.

‘I know. But I still wish you would.’

In the silence that follows, you can feel slick drooling and cooling from your cunt, soaking your panties. You shift in your seat, unsure whether you’re trying to ignore or resolve the discomfort. Frankie watches you still, and when you wriggle again, his own hips shift. You fix him with a stare, the air hot and thick between you. You curve your body towards him, one hand coming down gently to hold yourself over the console.

‘They wouldn’t know. If we kissed.’

Frankie continues to stare as you remain frozen, poised before him.

‘I know.’

‘Then let me kiss you.’

‘No, hermosa.’

You look back and forth between his eyes and his lips, watching his throat bob as he tries to keep his distance.

You slump backwards a little, trying not to feel any kind of acute rejection. You’re just hot, bothered, unbearably aroused in the cabin of his truck. His refusing to kiss you isn’t a mark on his desire, just his self control. Muscle memory of years of following instructions. Frankie turns his body, facing forward out the windscreen in his seat. He swipes his palms over the steering wheel, and your lips part, cunt burning when you imagine those hands on you again, huge palms sweeping down your curves, your thighs, up between your legs -

‘I’m not gonna kiss you, because then I’ll need to fuck you.’

Your gasp zips past your lips before you can stop it. Frankie keeps his eyes trained forwards as you stare at him. Your pussy clenches around nothing, needing something to sate it, a touch, a glance, anything -

‘Frankie -’

He shakes his head, grip tightening on the wheel.

‘Please, Frankie, I’ll be so good -’

‘Enough.’

You watch his nostrils flare, watch a muscle in his jaw tick. Watch a certain darkness sweep over his features, and you know, you know you’ve won.

He never stood a chance.

‘Tell me,’ you whisper, and he shakes his head, skull pressed into the headrest, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. ‘I want you to tell me. Tell me how you’d fuck me.’

Frankie closes his eyes slowly, his shoulders tensing, breath faltering.

‘No,’ he whispers, ‘No, baby, I can’t do that -’

You whine, hands scrubbing down your bare thighs, trying to find something to grip, to hold, something that’s not him -

‘God - it hurts, Frankie,’ you mumble, wriggling in the seat, and his eyes flick back and forth over you; your pathetic attempts to grind into something, the heaving of your chest, the wild, desperate look in your eyes.

‘What, baby? What hurts?’ He breathes, and he’s leaning forwards over the centre console like he could pounce on you, like he could hold your hands in a tight, binding grip behind your back, like he could eat you here, devour you here -

You whimper by way of an answer, hands finally resting on the hem of your skirt, pushing it up, up to bunch at your hips. Frankie watches, eyes molten and black as you cup your sex, as you buck against your hand. He moans loudly at the sight.

‘There, hermosa?’

You shudder out a sigh, a hissed yes as you apply more pressure. His throat bobs as he considers, as he weighs his options.

‘Please, Frankie -’ you beg, though you’re not even sure what for. Rules, rules, but none of them seem to make sense anymore, none of them seem to matter as you lick your own lips at his growing bulge through his jeans. He breathes in harshly, swiping a palm across his mouth before he fixes you with a look that makes you feel dizzy. He swallows thickly.

‘Show me.’

Easy, so easy. You lift your hips from the seat and slide your thumbs under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, down, watching him the whole time. He waits like he’s forgotten how to breathe, this starving, tortured look in his eyes like he’s on fire and water is just out of reach. You spread your legs for him and dip your fingers to your slit, gathering the slickness there before trailing the digits further up, spreading yourself in a v shape so he can see everything, see how you throb, how your clit twitches, how you leak down into the cleft of your ass.

‘Need you, Frankie,’ you whine, ‘Need you to -’

He lurches back like he’s been shocked.

‘Don’t,’ he grits, ‘Don’t, you know I can’t touch you -’

‘Then watch,’ you breathe, ‘He said don’t touch. But you can watch. I can watch.’

‘Watch?’ he repeats, breathless, body shifting, open, and you nod, mewling against your palm.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur, ‘Frankie, baby, let me watch you. Need to see you.’

He stares at you, something working behind his eyes.

‘Watch,’ he says again, nodding, ‘Yeah, please baby, is that okay? Can I watch?’

You nod, relishing the control that he shifts so easily to you. So easy. You trace the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading the glistening wetness so it catches every stream of moonlight bruising through the window.

‘You, too. Wanna watch you, too.’

He nods quickly, mouth agape, unable to tear his eyes away from your core. He palms himself roughly over his jeans.

You trace your fingers back over your clit, swiping it in circles until your head falls back against the window, your brows pulling together as you loose a quiet cry. You bite your lip, looking down your nose at Frankie

‘How does it feel?’ he gasps, ‘Please - tell me - how does it feel?’

‘Good,’ you gasp, ‘So good, Frankie.’

He groans, his hands finding his button and zipper, undoing them before shifting his hips to pull his jeans down. He reaches inside his boxers to pull himself free, swollen and aching.

He’s thick, and just as big as you knew he would be - but he’s so pretty as well. The same tan as his skin, pink flush at his tip, skin silken and veins throbbing beneath the surface. You moan, wanton and crooning, sinking a finger into yourself as he grips his base, squeezing at the sight of your digit disappearing up to the knuckle.

His hips lift as he fucks himself slowly into his fist, lips wet and eyes blown, his other hand coming away from scratching at the denim of his thigh to squeezing and cupping his balls. You go slow for him as he watches, working your bud in agonisingly slow circles, pumping your finger in and out gently until you remove it completely, Frankie’s eyes drawn to the strand of slick suspended from your finger. He moans, a sick, feral sound, his head falling back against the seat to expose the straining tendons in his neck, the sweat that glimmers in the hollows before his clavicles. He jerks himself faster, tighter - tip ruddy now, beading with precum that he swipes down the length of his shaft, slick enough for you to imagine that it’s your spit, your wetness. A surge of arousal floods your fingers again, and you whimper.

‘Look at you, Frankie. So gorgeous.’

Frankie answers with his own choked growl as he watches you sink your finger into your heat again, but this time he grits his teeth, inhaling sharply before endowing you with an instruction -

‘Give yourself another finger, hermosa. Another. Wanna see you stretched out, baby.’

You comply, sinking in another easily, rocking your hips back and forth, the sound of it obscene, loud in the truck, and Frankie squeezes himself, breathless.

‘Fuck, hermosa, you’re so wet - so wet. Is it for me?’

You nod frantically, speeding up your movements until Frankie matches your rhythm, his body tense, his tip turning a cruel shade of crimson. You whimper again. This soft, sweet man, reduced to this savage across from you, fisting himself, reeling himself back from the edge just to wait to come with you.

You watch as his eyes drop to your cunt again, as a grunt wrenches itself from his chest, and he begs you - more, one more, please, hermosa. You oblige, cramming three of your fingers into your dripping cunt just to catch a glimmer of what he’d feel like inside of you. Your orgasm flexes, tight and searing inside of you, and you whine.

‘Close, so close, Frankie -’ you pant, and his eyes widen, fist working so furiously you wonder whether it hurts, whether he likes it like that. He groans deep in his throat.

‘Make yourself come, baby, please make yourself come. I have to see you come.’ And you seize, tight as a knot around your fingers, body curling in on itself as you come, teeth clenched to bite back your scream. Frankie falls slack in his seat, eyes glazed as his cock jerks in his grip, and you meet his eyes, gasping out -

‘Frankie - want you to come, come for me, baby boy -’ and he erupts over his hands, over the tops of his thighs and his belly with a choked growl, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. You watch his thick spend trickle over his knuckles, mouth watering at the sight, and your fingers twitch as you pull them from inside you. You are so close to reaching out and swiping it with your own fingertips to take to your lips, and it’s like Frankie’s read your mind -

‘I want to taste you. So bad.’ he gasps, gaze fixed on your shining fingers. You bring them to your mouth, tongue laving between your fingers at your own salty sweet taste. Frankie moans again, tugging his spent cock weakly if only to stop himself from reaching out to snatch your wrist to him.

‘I promise,’ you murmur between licks, ‘I promise - soon, baby - God, so soon -’

You suck your middle finger into your mouth, keeping your eyes locked with his, licking beneath your nail before releasing it with a lewd pop. Frankie looks physically pained.

‘Stop,’ he pants, ‘Just - stop. I need you to stop.’

You understand, whole body still at fever pitch despite your release. Your hands fall to your thighs. Frankie tucks himself back into his boxers and lifts his hips to fix his jeans before popping open the driver’s side door.

‘Just - give me a moment.’ He murmurs as he jumps out, leaving the door open behind him. You watch as he walks circles in the dirt beside the car, his hands on the back of his head, breathing like he’s run a marathon. It takes a minute for your own brain to catch up with you. You tug your panties back up and your skirt down, some kind of horrible anxiety, disappointment and desperation clawing up your throat. You swallow and pop your own door open, rounding the truck to find Frankie.

The air has done him good. His eyes are clearer, body more relaxed, and he watches you approach with an expression that softens at every step. He barely gets out a you oka- before you rush to him with open arms, crashing into his chest with a quiet mmph. Frankie wraps his arms around you just as quickly, rocking the two of you back and forth, swooping a palm down your back.

‘I’m sorry.’ You whisper. Frankie stops his swaying, gives your shoulder a little squeeze.

‘Why are you apologising, princesa?’ he asks, so sweet you have to swallow again before answering.

‘I don’t know,’ you murmur, ‘That was supposed to feel good, but I don’t - I don’t know how I feel -’

He holds you tighter as tears threaten in your eyes, and you will yourself not to blink, lest they fall.

‘S’okay,’ he whispers back, ‘Might be ‘cause you want it so bad,’ you feel the rumble of a chuckle ripple through his chest. ‘That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I still feel like I could rip my skin off.’

A sharp laugh bubbles out of your mouth, taking you by surprise. You blink and the tears begin to fall, and you laugh harder. The man might be right.

‘This is so weird,’ you chuckle against his chest, ‘I’ve never been so horny I’ve cried before.’

He laughs, pressing a sweet kiss to your head.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, ‘And it’s not weird. Feels like my brain will never work the same again.’

You laugh harder, sniffing as you pull away from him. He grins down at you, pinches your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Home?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, Frankie,’ you smile, ‘Take me home.’

Frankie holds your hand over the centre console the whole way home. You’re too tired to think about the semantics of rules, too overwhelmed to wonder what Joel or Santi would say. You grant yourself a small mercy in the passenger seat, reminding yourself that this is okay. This is aftercare. It’s necessary, Joel grumbles in your ear, it doesn’t come with rules.

When Frankie pulls up outside your place, he hops out to make sure he can the truck door for you and help you down. He walks you to your front door like he’d done so many moons ago, ever the gentleman, and waits until the door is unlocked and you’ve flicked the hallway light on.

You turn to face him, wrapping yourself around him again. He returns the hug.

‘Will you call me if you need anything?’

‘Yeah,’ you breathe, ‘Will you?’

‘’course,’ he swipes the back of his hand over your cheek, and dips to press a soft, firm kiss to your forehead. ‘See you tomorrow, baby.’ He says. You pinch his cheek as he pulls away, chuckling as he bounds back down the path.

You watch his truck peel away like a teenager, standing in the doorway smiling to yourself until his tail lights disappear around the corner.

———

When Joel calls not fifteen minutes later, you’re wearing one of his shirts, grinding your bare pussy into your pillow, fingers working steadily against your clit.

You fumble with your phone, taking longer than usual to swipe to answer the call, and if that hadn’t have given you away, your pants and whimpers do. Joel chuckles warmly down the line at you.

At his ‘how you doing, baby girl?’, your mouth curves in a shy smile, and a heat blossoms in your chest. Your ‘good, daddy’ is true, a kind of peace settling over your frazzled body and mind. You let out a cooing moan before you can ask how his day’s been, and his breath catches down the line.

‘And what are you doing, baby girl?’ he asks softly, so soft, and you smile even wider.

‘Thinkin’ bout you, daddy.’ You breathe, and he hums at your words.

‘Just me?’

‘Mostly.’ You confess, and he chuckles, a honeyed sound.

‘Mostly,’ he echoes, ‘And what are you using while you’re thinking about me, baby?’

You give a strong roll of your hips, grinding down as you answer him.

‘A pillow, daddy.’

‘Mhm. Just a pillow?’

You whine.

‘Fingers, too.’

‘Greedy fuckin’ girl,’ he chuckles. You moan loudly, and are rewarded with a low grunt in return. He listens to you breathe for a moment before you hear the crackle of him shifting, moving.

‘Stop now,’ he says, gently. ‘Need to ask you somethin’.’

You pull your fingers out of your cunt, whining as you do. You can picture his smirk so clearly that you tell him to knock it off.

‘Sorry baby.’ He apologises, so disingenuous.

‘What’s the question?’

‘I found something. In my case,’ he says. ‘Don’t suppose you’d know who put it there?’

You bite your lip.

‘Hmmm. Depends. What is it?’

You hear Joel fumble with something before he speaks again.

‘Let’s see. One of ‘em… pocket pussy things.’

‘Huh. No idea. Must have been your other girlfriend.’

He laughs.

‘Motherfucker. You damn well I can’t handle another one of you.’

You grin at your reflection. If you had a cord phone, you’d be twirling the plastic around your finger right now. Girlfriend.

‘My bad. Must have been me, then.’

‘Causing trouble even from all the way over there, huh, angel?’

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s drawing it out.

‘Sure, daddy,’ you coo. There’s a beat. ‘Have you… tried it?’

He huffs, and you can see the frown in your mind. How you’d smooth your fingers over it.

‘Ain’t need it when I’ve got you.’

‘Even when you’re far away?’

There’s a pause as Joel considers his reply.

‘You feelin’ sorry for me or somethin’?’

You sigh, letting your fingers dip to your clit. He won’t know, so long as you’re quiet.

‘Couldn’t just - leave you out, daddy,’ you huff against the phone.

A low chuckle rumbles through from the other end, and you bite your lip.

‘So this is - what? My consolation prize?’

‘No,’ you frown, ‘It’s better than that. Better than your hand.’

‘Better ‘n my hand?’

‘Yeah, daddy.’

‘Is it better than you, babygirl?’

You roll your hips at his question, biting back a whine.

‘No, daddy.’

He hums down the line.

‘Sounds like a consolation prize to me, honey.’

You sigh again, louder this time.

‘’S not a consolation prize,’ you groan. ‘Frankie isn’t even allowed to touch me.’

Joel chuckles at you properly this time.

‘You sound disappointed, baby.’

‘I am.’

He waits. He waits, because he knows. Of course he knows.

‘We watched each other, daddy,’ you breathe. Confessional, dirty. A heat flushes up your cheeks as you tug at your t-shirt, suddenly nervous.

‘Watched?’ he asks, a smile curling the word.

Mmhm.

‘Well done, baby,’ he says, ‘I’m impressed. Though a little disappointed it didn’t take you longer to figure out.’

You giggle, and he puffs out a breath before continuing.

‘Santi told me it wouldn't be so fast. Thought it’d take you guys a little while to -’

‘He thought it’d take Frankie longer to work out,’ you interject. Joel falls silent. ‘He knows Frankie, but not me so well. You should’ve known better.’

Joel laughs again.

‘You’re goddamn right, angel.’

You smile, smug. Hum in agreement.

Joel sighs.

‘Too eager for your own goddamn good,’ he murmurs, ‘Bet you can’t wait to know what his cock feels like inside you, huh? Can’t wait to be droolin’ and comin’ over him like you do me, hm?’

God, his mouth. You moan openly, rocking your hips again, ready. Ready to hear him moaning, too, ready to hear the slick sound of the toy on his dick, ready to hear him groaning your name as he comes.

‘Yes, daddy.’

Joel hums, pleased. His breathing comes a little ragged this time, making your core hotter, tighter, wetter.

‘Use it,’ you moan, ‘Please, daddy. Wanna hear you use it.’

‘I’ll use it,’ he grunts, ‘But you ain’t gonna touch yourself. Just gonna have to listen, sweetheart.’

‘Please -’ you whine, but he cuts you off with a harsh tut.

‘No. You’re gonna be good, you’re gonna listen to me first.’

You begin to groan out again but he says your name in such a tone that you feel your body shift into submission, acquiescing to his demand.

‘You’re gonna stay still,’ he tells you, ‘And you’re gonna leave that pretty pussy alone until I’m done, y’hear?’ Your eyes half close, head dipping forward.

‘Yes, daddy.’

‘Good girl.’

You listen closely to the pop of the cap on the bottle of lube you’d packed for him, his heavy breathing as you imagine him soaking the toy, his sharp inhale as he spreads the cool gel over himself. The pop sounds again, and you wait with baited breath.

You’re rewarded almost immediately with a groan that resonates right through your body, vibrating straight down to your cunt as though he had voiced it against your lips.

‘Gonna start with my hand, baby,’ he says, voice low and breathy, ‘Start nice and slow, just like you would if you were here, huh?’

You hum low in your throat and lick your lips.

‘Wouldn’t start like that, daddy.’ Your voice is husky, drenched in lust at the thought of Joel spread on the hotel bed stroking his cock.

‘Oh?’

‘Start with my mouth,’ you breathe, ‘I’d lick you. Get you nice and wet so I can suck on it.’

‘Yeah?’ he whispers, ‘That what you’d do, you’d suck on it?’

You ache and throb between your legs, your free hand scratching at the skin of your thigh to distract yourself. Your mouth waters at the thought.

‘Mhm, daddy. Nice and deep, how you like it. You could fuck my throat if you wanted to.’

A low, guttural sound answers you, the slick sounds of his moving fist getting faster.

‘I’d want you to hold me still while I take you, daddy. I’d want to dribble and gag and cry.’

Joel huffs.

‘Would you, baby? You’d be such a good girl for me?’

You nod, lip between your teeth, even though he can’t see you.

‘Yeah, daddy.’

‘And what if daddy wants to fuck your tight little pussy, baby girl? What would you do then?’

You moan, eyes fluttering shut, hips shifting of their own accord. You grip the hem of your t-shirt.

‘I’d let you.’ you answer, helplessly.

Joel chuckles darkly.

‘Want me to tell you what I’d do?’ He asks, and you loose a pained little sound, brows pulling together. You’re sure you’re soaking the pillow at this point, dripping through to the other side. Joel laughs again. ‘I think I’d tie you up, baby,’ he says, so low, so deep, that the world starts to drift away from you. You’re barely aware of the fact that the noise of his hand has stopped until he moans wantonly into the phone, and your eyes fly open. ‘Fuck,’ he grits, and then he huffs a cruel little laugh. ‘Was gonna tell you how I’d tie you up and fuck you, baby,’ he growls, ‘But this toy feels good ‘nough that I might just make you watch me instead.’

You whine, chin tipped up to the ceiling, hushed little cries of no, daddy, please - falling from your lips.

‘Oh, sweetheart. You don’t like the sound ‘a that?’ he asks. You shake your head, mewling, ‘No, ‘course not,’ he murmurs ‘Just wanna be stuffed full ‘a daddy’s cock, huh? Wanna be creamin’ around it way you love to, all stretched out and used, yeah?’

God, yes you do. You moan breathlessly, cunt twitching and throbbing, and you wonder whether this is enough to just come hands free. If you concentrate hard enough, if you bear down enough -

‘Maybe I’d film it,’ he muses, ‘Film it so Santiago and Francisco could watch. See how you really like to be used, how cock dumb I can make you. Would you like that, angel?’

‘Fuck, daddy, yes -’

‘Mmm. So they can see how good you look when you beg, when you’re dripping with my cum, huh, baby girl? See how good you look when you cry, when you just take it for me?’

You can tell he’s getting closer, his breathing heavier and more ragged, longer pauses between his thoughts. You wriggle on the pillow, feeling yourself flutter around nothing at the pathetic stimulation. He moans again, broken and loud, and you puff against the speaker, seeing your opportunity -

‘Come for me, daddy,’ you pant, ‘Please - come for me. Need to hear you daddy, please -’

Joel’s breath catches raggedly, once, twice, before it cuts off with a deep growl. With every resounding moan you hear, you can imagine the spurts of cum bursting from his tip. You wriggle even more, cunt burning.

‘Atta girl,’ Joel gasps, ‘Atta girl, helping your daddy out.’

‘Please,’ you moan, breathless, ‘Please, daddy, my turn, is it -’

‘Your turn,’ he says, so warm, so sweet, ‘Go ahead, baby. Long as it’s only yourself you’re touchin’.’

Your fingers flutter to your clit, swiping it gently, so sensitive, and you grit your teeth.

‘Only me.’ You repeat, and you can picture Joel’s answering smile. All teeth.

‘Just you, baby girl. No touchin’ no one else. Not even Frankie.’

You stay silent, moving your hips now to drag your soaked folds against the pillow. Your head falls to your shoulder, and you moan long and loud, wondering whether you can convince Frankie, whether you’ve got enough time together to film the two of you - watching each other, then Frankie stretching you out, filling you with his cum. Something you could send to Joel and Santi, a little treat, a little teaser.

You’ve been quiet for too long. And Joel knows. He always knows.

‘You gonna break the rules, baby girl?’ He coos.

You smile, as though he’s read your mind.

‘How much trouble will I be in if I do?’ You ask through a moan, biting your lip.

He chuckles down the line at you.

‘I don’t know, sugar,’ he drawls, ‘But you could always find out.’

The line clicks and beeps as he hangs up, and you stare down at your phone in disbelief. The signal must have dropped.

Just as you fumble to press the call button again, a text flies through.

Night, babygirl x

And then another -

Try to be good. I know it’s hard for you

You huff a laugh as you drop the phone into your lap, hips curling again over the pillow beneath you. Sonofabitch.

You’ll behave as badly as you damn well please.

———

You and Frankie make quick work of dinner the next evening. Your hands are clammy at the dinner table, pulse fast in your neck, a flush passing high over Frankie’s collar the whole time.

He makes even faster work of the drive back to yours, scraping through red lights as you pull your skirt higher, as you skate your fingers over your thighs, over your panties, watching him the whole time. There’s a wonderful thrill when you catch him looking, when his eyes meet yours and then drift to your hands, how dark they are in the passing streetlights, the white-knuckle grip of his hands on the wheel.

You can feel the heat of him behind you as you unlock the front door, the hunger of wanting his hands on you, pushing you through the doorway, the press of his chest against your back. But you can wait. You can be good.

You move through to your kitchen with him trailing behind you, and you’re grabbing two beers from your fridge before the question of do you want a drink? is even out. When you turn to face him again, Frankie is dangerously, dangerously close. You can smell the musk of his skin, see every changing fleck of colour in his eyes, and it’s too much. You’re pressing the bottle into his chest at the same time as you’re tipping your head for a kiss, eyelids fluttering closed. He takes both bottles from your hands and places then somewhere behind you before caging you in with his thick arms, his mouth in a tight, serious line. You arch your back subconsciously, but he seems to anticipate every movement of your body; somehow still always millimetres away, like the ghost of a man pressed up against you, a layer of film between you.

He leans in so close that you can taste the hot breath he’s pouring into your mouth, so close you can feel the air moving when he tells you, so softly -

‘Take your clothes off. And sit on the couch.’

You strip yourself as you watch him do the same, eyes blown wide by every stretch of bare skin that’s revealed to you. And it is not fair. So unfair that Frankie is finally naked in front of you - so gorgeous - long-limbed and tan, beautiful cock hard and heavy between his thick thighs - and you are unable to touch him.

You clench your jaw, sat back and stretched out like a cat at one end of the sofa, petting yourself as you watch him come towards you and lower himself onto the cushion next to you.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into the rhythm you found last night. It’s hypnotic. The movements, the sounds, the words. Watching Frankie is heady, intoxicating. It feels like you’re watching something happen outside of your own body, and you find yourself surprised as you move to kneel beside him, as you swing a leg over his legs so you’re straddling him. You’re so wet, so warm that you’re sure the night could pass for a summer’s day. Your skin is glimmering with sweat, same as Frankie’s. You search his eyes to find him staring back at you, just as fucked out, just as woozy. You moan, hot little pants dripping past your lips. He echoes you.

You sit back on his thighs, your fingers diving in and out of you as you watch his fist work furiously around his cock. Something warm and hot, greedy and possessive swells inside of you. He looks delicious like this, spread out in front of you, wanting and needy. His cock thick, swollen, dribbling. It twitches as you watch him, and you moan somewhere beyond your consciousness. Need, your body whispers. Need. You inch forwards, lifting your hips higher, higher, Frankie watching you like he’s somewhere outside his body. You take his hand from his cock, fingers slippery with his precum, and place it at your hip. You grind into your hand at the slick feeling, pulling your fingers out with a wet sound and hovering above him, gripping his cock so you can brush the swollen head of it against your clit. Frankie shudders, his body going slack, and you almost come from the sensation alone. You lower your hips just a little, bracing the mushroom of his tip at the tight ring of your entrance.

You gonna break the rules, babygirl?

‘Hermosa -’ he breathes, suddenly unsure.

You huff against him, everything too tight, too heady. Need.

‘Shhh, it’s okay,’ you whisper. ‘It’s okay, just a little bit. Just wanna feel you a little bit.’

‘But -’ he’s cut off by his own loud whine, unable to protest as you fit his head just inside your pussy. You throb around him, at the stimulation it brings. You clutch at his shoulder, head falling forwards at the stretch. Fuck, you could absolutely come like this. You need him deeper, need him to to fill you, but -

Oh, he is so good.

His hands are like steel at your hips, keeping you in place. Frankie doesn’t want to disobey, doesn’t want to get in trouble. His grip speaks to that, his wide eyes, the sweat at his temple. But you can see on his face as you drip down him, the clutch of Joel’s control doesn’t hold nearly enough power when faced with what he truly wants.

You move back and forth a little, still with his tip just inside, moaning brokenly at the feel of it, and his eyelids flutter closed as something like a prayer brushes past his lips.

Frankie is good, but you are so, so bad.

You drop your hips down further, and his fingers flex against your skin as he gasps, a high, keening noise reverberating from his chest.

‘Jesus Christ -’ he groans.

‘Fucking - hell, Frankie -’

He’s a lot. You can feel yourself adjusting as you slide down his length, your promise quickly forgotten. Greedy fuckin’ girl. But you can’t help yourself, brain short circuiting, body molten as you take him in inch by inch. It’s too much, all consuming. There’s no space for another thought, any more consideration as he fills you, as you take what you need.

He whimpers as you bottom out, grinding against the curls at his base, breathing heavily.

‘So good,’ you whisper, ‘So good, you know that?’

Your head hangs forward against his shoulder as you gulp down air, as you feel yourself clench and leak around him, as he twitches inside you. After moments in almost silence, you lean back to look down at him.

His eyes are glassy, fucked out as he looks back at you.

You lift your hips, and the moan he lets out is pained. Your skin is on fire, and you want his hands everywhere.

‘Frankie, touch me.’

‘I can’t -’

‘You can,’ you grit, ‘You can, because I told you to.’

He moans again, and suddenly he’s everywhere. He knows where you need to be touched like you’ve done this before, his fingertips scorching and cooling as he strokes your thighs, your neck, as he grips your ass. Encouraged, you continue to move, slowly rocking up and down on his cock, breathing raggedly. Every noise that escapes the two of you seems to come without being registered, something primal, starved. Already, the coil is tightening, your body racing towards where it needs to be, and you know it will be intense, all-consuming to come around him, so thick inside of you. You lean further forwards, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your sternum, licking the skin before turning his head to take a nipple in his mouth - hot and wet and sucking, lathing it with his tongue.

‘Fuck,’ you hiss, moving faster, chasing, chasing what is so close. You grip the hair at the back of his head, tugging and keeping him close to your breast, keening against him.

‘Like that,’ you gasp, ‘Yeah, like that baby, god, so good, you’re so good for me, feel so good baby boy, you have no idea -’

You can feel yourself tighten and tighten, and Frankie holds you harder, force that feels so delicious you don’t even care about the hurt, not until it turns to iron, not until he rips his mouth away from you -

‘I’m gonna come -’ he whimpers, gripping your hips so tight you couldn’t move if you wanted to. ‘Please, baby, please - stop - I can’t - I’ll come -’

Hot desperation claws up your chest. You are so close, so close, but he looks so wildly at you that you stop trying to move, try to force back tears of frustration as you lean forwards to kiss him as sweetly as you can. Spit-slick and swollen, you pull back and rest your forehead to his. Try to think straight, tell him what he needs to hear.

‘No you won’t,’ you coo, taking his face in your hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. You put everything into your gaze, all your warmth, all your care for him, try to make him see how good this is. He stares up at you, eyes wide, dark. Panicked. Panicked at the thought of disappointing you. ‘You won’t, Frankie. It’s okay, you’re not gonna come.’ You try to shift a little so you can settle on your thighs to soothe him, but he clenches his eyes shut at your movement and whimpers louder, his mouth screwing up.

‘Please don’t move,’ he whispers, ‘Just wait, - just -’

You lean forward and press a kiss to his hairline, feeling his tip move slowly to a shallower part of you. Fuck.

‘Relax, baby boy,’ you murmur, and he sucks in a breath. ‘Concentrate. I’m gonna sit down, and you are not going to come, okay?’

You wait, but Frankie still has his eyes screwed shut, nostrils flaring, fingers bruising against your skin. The tense feeling in your chest swells again.

‘Frankie.’ You say sharply, and he jumps out of himself, eyes flashing open to yours. ‘I’m gonna sit back down. Take a deep breath.’

Frankie watches you as he breathes in through his nose, and you move at the sound of his airflow. His hands slacken at your hips, and he moans, low and long.

‘That’s it,’ you say, sinking all the way down, writhing helplessly at his base. You’re already both so close. ‘Good boy. How are you doing?’

Frankie breathes shallowly as you adjust around his cock. His cheeks are red, hair sweaty. His lips are bitten, bleeding through one crack of skin, eyes almost entirely black. You scratch at the curls at the nape of his neck, massaging the tendons there.

‘Okay,’ he croaks. You try not to think of how he feels inside you. How full you feel, how stretched out. He’s thick and nestled in deep - not as far as Joel - but the ache you feel around his girth is delicious. Fuck, this was a bad idea. You should have just hopped off him, let him slide out so you could both catch your breath. And now, instead, you’re managing to edge the two of you even further.

You know you can’t last long, and you know, from the desperate look on Frankie’s face, that he won’t either, no matter what you do. It feels crueller to stop now than it does to keep going, to watch him deny himself like this, to feel you deny yourself, too. You can feel your pussy tightening and leaking around him at the thought, the ache, the need that’s just there -

‘I have to move, baby -’

‘No -’ he chokes, ‘Please, hermosa, just a minute -’

‘I have to, Frankie, I - you feel too good, baby, I need to move. Wanna come, wanna see you come, too -’

Frankie’s iron grip returns to your hips as they lift of their own accord, and he hisses, head bowed, at the movement. You moan hoarsely.

‘It’s okay,’ you pant, gripping his chin in one hand, lifting his face to yours. ‘Listen to me, it’s okay. Focus now.’ You begin to move up and down him again, the slow drag of his cock tightening your grip on his face but loosening the hold you have on your body. You whimper, pussy fluttering around him. Frankie groans, breathlessly whispers your name, a pleasepleaseplease -

‘I know you can last as long as I need you to, baby,’ you whisper. ‘You’ve done it before, haven’t you?’ Frankie whines, his eyes rolling back, mouth falling slightly open. You can’t stop the moan that bubbles up your throat - him edging himself as he watched you the night before, eyes stuck on your fingers, your pulses, your wetness. You feel him throb inside you as he nods drunkenly. ‘That’s it, good boy. I know it feels good, but you can last a little longer. I know you can, Frankie. You’re doing so well.’

His fingers clutch at the swell of your hips, weak, sweaty, and you clench so hard around him that it’s a challenge to drag his cock through your walls. You breathe shallowly, slowing the pace again, and Frankie watches you through heavy lidded eyes. He licks his bottom lip.

‘Come,’ he breathes, a hand leaving your hip so he can thumb your clit. You hiss, hips stuttering so hard you sink all the way down onto him, grinding his tip into your womb. Frankie grits his teeth. ‘Come, hermosa,’ he tells you again, and you can feel the savage heat, pussy winding tighter and tighter, your body about to burst. Quietly, with a command he’s not had in his voice until now, Frankie says your name. Come. Now.

Your orgasm is blinding. You cease to exist in the corporeal world for an indeterminate time, coming to only when Frankie pulls you to his chest, his hips pressing up into you as you milk him. You’re achingly aware of the way his cock jumps inside of you as he pumps you full of cum, of the way his fingers grip and bruise your body, of the way you sink your teeth into his shoulder as you continue to throb around him.

‘Fuck.’ you bite out, resting your forehead against his as you pant into each other’s mouths. Minutes tick by, Frankie’s harsh grip turning to soft caresses, and you press chaste kisses to his nose, his forehead, his lips, before you rest your head against his collar bone. He takes a deep breath.

‘Baby,’ he starts. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, searching for what he’s about to say. You squeeze his middle gently. ‘Joel -’

‘Is my problem,’ you breathe, ‘I did this. It’s on me. He knew I’d break the rules.’

He swallows, nods.

‘Okay.’

You press a kiss to his neck, and he visibly relaxes.

‘It’s okay,’ you murmur. ‘No one’s gonna be mad at you. No one’s gonna be mad, full stop.’ He makes a noise of appreciation somewhere in his throat.

You bite your lip and lean back, fixing him with a wicked grin.

‘Besides, this is all part of the foreplay.’

‘The foreplay?’ He whispers, brow furrowing.

You nod, humming at the feeling of his cum slipping from the warmth of your cunt.

‘You really thought he’d just come in your mouth?’

His eyes darken, a huff slipping from his kiss-bitten lips. He brings your hand from his neck to his mouth and bites down on the flesh of your palm. You giggle again.

‘Mm, you like that, baby boy? Like the idea of daddy playing with you, too?’

‘Stop.’ He groans, ‘You keep talking like that, and -’

‘There’ll be a round two?’ you tease. ‘Doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me,’ you smile, feeling him twitch inside you. ‘In fact,’ you continue, ‘That sounds like something a very good boy would do.’

‘Stop talking,’ he growls, ‘And take me upstairs. I remember something about you promising to let me taste you.’

The smile that grows across your lips is impossible to hide.

———

Pope wasn’t fucking around when he told you Frankie was good with his mouth.

He wakes you the next morning with more of what he gave you last night, his tongue warm and wet against your cunt, lapping and kissing and sucking until you’re sweating and writhing above him, hands fisted in his hair.

He likes that.

Likes biting marks into your thighs, making you moan and cry and come again and again. Likes when you’re a little mean, when you tell him what to do, when you hold him afterwards, when you let him fill you and fuck you until you’re both whimpering and covered in cum and slick.

The three days that follow pass in a blur of not touching and definitely touching. Frankie quickly becomes accustomed to waking wrapped up in your bed, your arm thrown over his side, and you quickly become accustomed to the sweet praises that drip from his lips as he slots himself inside you - how tight and sweet you are, how he can’t believe he fits in so well. How he can’t wait to share you, properly this time.

He bends you over the kitchen table after you’ve finished eating dinner, licking into you before splitting you open, and you take him in your mouth on your knees in the shower, making sure to remind him of how pretty he is, how good he feels in your mouth. You work him open with your fingers, your tongue, curling them inside him just to watch him struggle not to come so fast. It’s gorgeous. And when you’re too sore and swollen to have each other again, you find yourself cradled between his thighs, your back to his chest as he circles your clit gently with two fingers, kissing your neck and grinding himself against you as you moan, as you remind him how you need to get to work.

‘I know, baby,’ he murmurs, ‘Just wanna watch you come again.’

It’s feverish, it’s risky. You try to be a good liar, but you’re sure Joel knows. Knows you well enough, anyway, to guess that it would happen at some point. Which just means he must have been planning what he’d do to you after finding out for some time, too. You try to be careful as the week goes on - planning to wash your sheets, to not have Frankie in the house when Pope or Joel return. To just try and make it look like you succeeded, that you listened. That you were good.

You’re on your elbows and knees, body weak, pussy swollen and dripping as Frankie spears you from behind when the text comes. It’s Santi.

I’ll be home 2morrow. Look forward to seeing u 2.

One more time, Frankie gasps. Once more like this, and then you can wait.

The two of you can wait until tomorrow.

———

You wait all day for Santi.

And you try to be good, you really do. But Frankie’s mouth is just so convincing.

He’s not allowed to bite, not allowed to leave any marks. He has permission to make you come, and then he has to clean you up again like nothing ever happened. You’re not going to touch him, and he’s not going to touch himself. He’ll have to save it for when Pope gets here. Which, as it’s turned out, is much later than he said. But not late enough to miss the show.

‘Am I interrupting?’

Frankie lurches away from between your thighs like he’s been scorched, backing up towards the end of the bed. He looks so surprised, so worried, that you snort at him, still so caught up in the throes of pleasure to not be too worried about Pope’s reappearance.

He looks good. A healthy glow to his skin, tight black top, his curls perfectly framing his face. His mouth is twisted into its most alluring smirk, and you watch it deepen at the flush of Frankie’s cheeks and the way you snake a hand between your legs.

‘Not at all, baby,’ you coo, and his eyes darken, following the path of your hand. It’s ingrained into you now, how Pope touched you last. The memory rushes through you, and you moan softly, the noises your hand is making against your wet folds so obscene. Still watching, he peels his belt from its loops, curling it in his fist.

He jerks his chin at Frankie.

‘You at least make her beg for it?’

You huff a small laugh, thinking back on how not thirty minutes ago Frankie had been on his knees in front of you, begging for a taste, begging to lick your cunt.

Santi’s eyes shoot to you and the amusement on your face, and he steps forward with a smile.

‘Should have known,’ he says gently, through a smile. His palm cups your cheek, and you nestle into his touch, forgetting that whatever punishment Joel might have thought up, Santi might share. He traces your skin down your jaw, your neck, across your clavicles and down the arm closest to him. He holds your wrist, and pulls it up to his mouth where he can kiss your knuckles in greeting. ‘Hello, querida.’

You look back at him with wide, lust-blown eyes. ‘Hey, Santiago.’

He takes you in greedily, eyes scouring over your bare body, scrutinising so intensely that you almost feel self-conscious.

‘What do we have here?’ he purrs, his spare hand reaching over you, thumbing your nipple. You whine and arch against his touch, fingers moving faster, and he tuts, shaking his head. ‘This will never do, cielo.’ He squeezes your breast firmly before running his fingers down the length of your arm, gripping your other wrist to bring your wet fingers to his mouth. He parts his lips and presses them in gently, and you mewl, hips bucking, as he works his tongue over the digits. His eyes are dark, boring into you, only distracted by the heavy breath Frankie takes from the other end of the mattress. He releases your fingers quickly.

‘No.’ he barks at the other man, and you swing your head to look at Frankie, a hand frozen mid-pull on his cock, face flushing an even deeper shade of red. ‘Did I tell you you could touch yourself?’

Frankie shakes his head frantically, hands moving to his sides.

‘Did I?’

‘No.’ he whispers, breathless, apologetic. Pope jerks his head again, over his shoulder.

‘Off the bed.’

Frankie unfurls his limbs to stand at the bedside, cock heavy and bobbing against his stomach as Santi easily joins your wrists with one hand. It takes you too long to work out what he’s doing - his belt already curled around your hands before you make a noise of protest, silenced by a hard look from him. He twists the leather around your hands twice before tying them to the bedframe above you, giving a sharp pull to test the give. Your chest heaves, something sparking inside you as he cups your cheek gently.

‘Good?’

‘Yes, Santi.’ You murmur, taking your cue from how he admonished Frankie.

He steps back, admiring his handiwork, looking pleased.

‘Maybe that’ll help you keep your hands to yourself.’ He says, half-turning to Frankie.

‘Down.’

Frankie drops to his knees at the command, and you moan, thighs clenching, arms straining above your head, tight to your eyes. Santi says something to you, muffled, and you try to relax again to hear him, a quiet hm? the only sound you can make.

He cocks his head at you, lips curled.

‘Lube, querida,’ he says, ‘Where do you keep it?’

You inhale sharply, mind buzzing.

‘U-under the bed.’

Pope drops to his knees beside you, rifling around until he finds and pulls out a green box, ripping off the lid. His face splits in a dangerous, thrilled grin.

‘Now, what have we got in here?’

You watch with bated breath as Pope rummages through the box, your chest heaving, arms straining against the belt again. He throws the bottle of lube onto the bed before turning his attention back to your toys. He brings your wand into your line of sight, and you squeeze your eyes closed as he presses the button, the room filling with its buzzing sound.

You flinch when he brings the vibrator into contact with your skin, tracing your nipples. Your eyes fly open to find him and Frankie watching you intently.

‘Had a lot of time to think about this while I was away,’ Santi says, almost to himself, ‘But I’ve got much better ideas now.’

Pope licks his lips as he dips the wand lower, teasing it around the soft flesh of your thighs before resting it against your clit.

You yelp at the contact, body juddering.

‘Please, Santi,’ you cry, ‘Please -’ but he shushes you gently, stroking your hair as he lays the wand between your thighs, nestled in to where the feeling is most intense, most overwhelming.

‘It’s okay, baby,’ he coos, ‘Just need you to hold that there, be a good girl.’

You whimper brokenly up at him, and he pouts at you, teasingly.

‘Listen to me,’ he says, and you hold your breath, ‘That’s gonna stay right there, against your pretty little pussy, and you’re not gonna come, are you, querida?’

Your brain buffers, jaw clenching against the heat rising through you, and Santi frowns at you.

‘Are you?’

The air bursts from your lungs as you moan out a no, rewarded with a smile.

‘Good girl.’ he says, dipping to pick something up from the floor. Your panties from where Frankie had stripped you of them earlier.

He taps your chin.

‘Open,’ your mouth falls open of its own accord, and Santi stuffs the lace in. ‘Something for you to bite down on.’

You huff, brow furrowing in concentration, desire, as Pope steps away again and moves towards Frankie.

Frankie, still on his knees, watching open mouthed, cock jumping as he takes you in - stretched out, bound and desperate. His eyes leave yours to watch Santi begin to strip himself of his clothes, and you join him, groaning at the slow show he gives you both. His smooth, tan skin, the muscles that ripple beneath. He unbuttons his jeans before stilling, eyes falling on Frankie.

‘Come here,’ Santi says, and Frankie shuffles forward instantly. ‘Good boy. Now take me out, and show our girl what else you can do with that mouth.’

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your wrists tug at Santi’s belt. From behind the fabric in your mouth, Pope can hear your muffled fuck. He smirks down at Frankie.

‘Before she comes, hermano.’

‘Pope,’ Frankie breathes, shocked through his haze of arousal, confused, warning.

‘What?’ Santi says, cupping his cheek gently. ‘You don’t think I checked with Joel? Didn’t ask what you got up to before he left? Don’t worry, baby, I did. He just wants to know she’s being taken care of. The sooner you put me in your mouth, the sooner we can do just that.’

Frankie swallows visibly, flustered, eyes flicking to you before he reaches out to tug Santi’s jeans and boxers down, taking the other man’s hard cock in his hand, squeezing and pumping gently. He takes care to thumb over the precum that gathers at his tip, using it to ease the movement. Pope breathes out slowly before touching Frankie’s bottom lip with his thumb, parting his mouth. He joins Frankie’s hand at his base and taps the head of his cock where his thumb had just been, and Frankie opens wider, allowing space for Pope to slide in. He takes lazy thrusts as you watch with wide eyes, hips canting against the toy, cunt pulsing, body on fire - acutely aware that Frankie has a gag reflex to rival your own. The thought makes you giggle, a kind of pride blooming in your chest. So easy. Frankie stares up at his best friend with glassy eyes, cock leaking and untouched between his legs, palms resting, unflexed, atop his thighs.

‘He’s a good toy, isn’t he, cielo?’ Pope hums, slowing the rhythm of his thrusts. ‘So good at just - taking it. Barely any fight in you, is there, baby boy?’

With his mouth full of Santi’s cock, Frankie can barely shake his head. The corners of Pope’s lips curl.

‘No. I’ll bet she hardly even had to ask you. Just a little while longer watching her and you’d have begged to feel her milk you yourself. Isn’t that right, Fish?’

Frankie moans beneath him, his cock dribbling and straining. You want so badly to have it on your tongue, in your hand, inside your pussy, that you whine again, louder. Santi’s eyes slide to you, mouth wide in a smirk.

‘Quit whining, querida. We’ll be with you in a moment.’

You groan again as Pope twists his fingers in Frankie’s hair, cooing at him.

‘Yeah, seems to you both thought to tell us how’d you’d watched, hm? It’s a pity you couldn’t wait to touch, though. Could have made this so much easier for yourselves.’ You wriggle your hips a little more, finding just the right angle, the right pressure. Oh, it’s so good. Too good. Your noises come louder, faster, and though Frankie’s eyes don’t leave Santi, his body twitches, finely attuned now, to how you sound before you come. As though he’s read Frankie’s mind, Pope’s eyes snap back to you.

‘Not yet.’ He bites.

You breathe jagged, harsh breaths through your nose, eyes scrunching shut against the coil that’s tightening in your core. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping through your folds, straight onto the sheets, and you try to think of anything but the sound of Santi’s cock moving in Frankie’s throat. What groceries you need to buy, the post you need to hand to your neighbour, what you’ll wear to meet Sarah. Joel. Joel. Fuck, no. That makes it even worse.

You moan again, dangerously close to the edge, cracking open your eyes to see Frankie bobbing up and down Santi’s length, drool escaping the corners of his mouth. How his cheeks hollow, how he sinks down to the wiry hairs at the bottom, eyes fixed on Santi’s face, unwavering, swallowing; moving back up to kiss the tip, the spit that trails from his lips to Pope’s head, how Pope rocks his hips forward, chasing the sensation. How Santi groans for him, tomalo, mírame, tu boca, tan bonito -

Your hips stutter, now trying to move away from the vibrator as Pope’s hand finally grips Frankie’s curls, pulling him in closer, holding him still as he fucks his throat, and you try to get out a please, please, trying to back yourself down, trying so hard even though it would be so easy -

Santi’s gaze finds you, lost to the feeling of the other man’s mouth, and he smiles kindly.

‘Casi ahí, bebita.’

You shake your head, eyes pleading, desperate, teary, and he seems to take pity on you. He uses his grip on Frankie’s curls to ease him off slowly, marvelling at the way his cock emerges, glistening; at the way Frankies mouth still hangs open for him to fill.

‘Should we help her out, baby?’ He asks softy.

Frankie looks to you, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. Please, you try to moan again.

‘Yes.’ He says, voice hoarse.

Pope holds a hand out to him to help him off the floor, and Frankie stands on shaky legs. You try to will them to move faster, teetering on the edge, breath leaving you in great puffs, your body straining away from the toy, arms aching with the effort of trying to pull yourself away.

‘You ready to come, princesa?’ Santi murmurs.

You gurgle an mhm, sniffling as his hand moves low, hovering over the vibrator. Frankie bends, his cock angry and red still, to press a kiss to your temple.

‘Did so well,’ he whispers, ‘It’s okay, hermosa.’

Pope takes that as his cue to take hold of the wand.

Your back arches as he presses it down, harder against you, roving it back and forth for extra friction. You start to beg through your panties, knowing you can’t hold back anymore as your pussy turns traitor, beginning to flutter. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, and Santi smiles.

‘Now.’ he whispers.

Your body pulls impossibly tight, giving in to the rush of fire that has been simmering, your muscles clenching painfully as sound and sight evade you. You can feel your lungs working, feel the choked gasps leaving you, feel your arms pulling at Santi’s belt, but you are somewhere outside your body. A rush courses through your body, and you feel yourself gushing between your thighs.

When you come to, blinking, body slick with sweat and your cum seeping down your legs, Pope is untying your hands. You drop them above your head, and Frankie takes your wrists, massaging them soothingly with his thumbs. Santi presses a tender kiss to your stomach, moving the vibrator away as you shiver and jerk with overstimulation.

‘So good, bebita,’ he says, ‘Atta girl. Look how well you behaved there.’

He presses his fingers into your mouth to remove the lace, and your tongue works around your gums to alleviate the dryness the fabric left.

‘Can you move?’ He asks gently, and you nod weakly, cinching at the waist to haul yourself up. He brings his palms to your shoulder, rubbing your skin as Frankie sits behind you, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck. ‘Well done, princesa.’

He brings you further forward, cradling you to his chest as he tells Frankie to lay back behind you, then angles your shoulder to turn and face him. Frankie looks fucked. His bare skin untouched, his cock dribbling precum, pooling at his stomach as you watch. His jaw is clenched like he’s trying to stop himself from begging, and you reach out to touch his thigh, trying to offer comfort in any way you can. He whimpers at the warmth of your skin.

‘Should we help him, querida?’ Pope whispers in your ear, your back still to his chest.

‘Yes.’ You answer, throat dry. He kisses your cheek, and you feel his smile.

‘Use your mouth, bonita.’

You move from Pope to settle yourself between Frankie’s legs on all fours, breathing kisses into his inner thighs before touching him, trailing a finger down his soft shaft. He hisses at the sensation, and you pause, meeting his eye. He swallows, nods.

‘Keep going.’ He rasps.

You pull yourself further up, mouthing at his underside, pressing kisses to his leaking tip before laving your tongue up and down his length. When his hips buck at the sensation, you move a palm to cup his balls and take him fully into your mouth, sucking and hollowing your cheeks, humming with the salty taste of him. His hands quickly find the side of your head, and you move back up towards his tip, licking into his slit to drink down more, playing with his frenulum in a way you know drives him insane. He moans, deep and needy, puffing out a soft fuck as you take him down to the base again, nuzzling the hair there, breathing him in. His cock jumps in your throat, and he looses a needy whine, pulling on your hair, but you don’t budge.

‘Hermosa -’ he breathes, voice tight, and Santi speaks again from behind you.

‘Are you gonna last, hermano?’

Frankie looks up from watching you, unfocused, swaying his head. Pope makes an amused sound, and you feel his hands on you, positioning you, then the press of his tip against your slick hole.

‘Just a little longer, Fish. So much to do with you two.’

Santi glides inside of you easily, but it’s still enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You moan around Frankie’s sensitive dick, and he gasps, hands tightening in your hair.

‘Please -’ he warns, ‘Please -’ as Pope pulls out and thrusts back in again. You cry out, moving back up to Frankie’s tip, moving up and down the best you can as Pope dives in and out of your pussy, knocking you forward to take Frankie deeper with each thrust. ‘Santi -’ Frankie grits, and the other man chuckles behind you.

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘Don’t want to spoil the fun.’

You whine and pout at the loss as he withdraws from you completely, turning your head to find that he’s stripped himself of his jeans and underwear. He winks at you before giving you a little push.

‘Ride it, querida.’

You push yourself up eagerly, coming to straddle Frankie’s hips before positioning him at your entrance. He looks up at you with blown, lust filled eyes, absolutely ruined.

Despite the stretch, you sink down onto him without stopping.

He feels so good. Just like the first time.

You writhe down at his base as his hands shoot out to grip your hips, his beautiful neck straining as his grits his teeth, his abs flexing as he attempts to hold you still. But it didn’t work the first time, and it won’t work now.

You take yourself slowly up, smiling at the wet sound of the movement before sinking down again, feeling him stretch you out, feeling him in your stomach. It’s a delicious ache. You wonder what Joel would say right now, watching you take him so easily, watching how he fills you. Bet you can’t wait to know what his cock feels like inside you, huh? Can’t wait to be droolin’ and comin’ over him like you do me, hm? You clench tight around Frankie at the thought, at the same time as a little ache settles in your chest. You miss him. You miss him, and you wonder what he’d be doing with his hands, his mouth, his cock -

‘Que cosita mas linda.'

Santi’s voice brings you back as you bounce on Frankie’s lap, and you lift your head to look at the younger man, his eyes heavy-lidded, lip nipped between his teeth.

‘She gonna make you come like this, Francisco?’

At the use of his full name, all of the sounds Frankie has been trying to hold back break free from him. All of his pretty little gasps and moans, his whimpers, the way he pants your name as he clings to you, eyes never leaving where you’re joined as he pleads -

‘Can I? Can I come?’

You clench around him again, the knot in your belly snapping at his words, your orgasm blinding as it comes at you sideways. Frankie moans loudly, repeating your name. You gasp, high little pants of uh- uh- as you jolt on him, pain mixing with pleasure as you call his name, Santi’s name, Joel’s name -

‘Up. Off.’

Santi presses a palm to your backside to move you off of Frankie’s length, even as you still clench around him.

‘Fuck,’ Frankie heaves, ‘Fuck, please, no -’

‘Quiet.’ Santi bites at him, and Frankie whines, his cock jumping between your folds at his tone. You close your eyes.

‘Let him,’ you plead, ‘Please, let him, Pope.’

You wanted him to come, he deserved to come. You move your lips up and down his length, and Frankie chokes a moan, his body moving higher up the bed as Santi moves behind you, but you can’t work out why behind the darkness of your eyelids. Your eyes are still closed, body still quaking as Santi leans forward to press a kiss to the centre of your spine. You arch your back against his mouth and he chases you, pressing another slightly higher, scraping his teeth against your skin.

‘Querida,’ he says. You can only moan in response. You know it’s not what he wants, but your brain is so fuzzy it can’t comprehend anything beyond it.

‘Turn around,’ he says, and you whimper, eyelids fluttering as you scratch gently at Frankie’s chest. The man beneath you writhes at the feeling, head rolling, eyes closing, fingers flexing bruisingly on your hips. ‘Turn. Around.’ Santi grits, this time taking Frankie’s hands so he can prise them off you, gripping your waist in an effort to turn your body.

There’s no graceful way to do it, but Frankie handles your limbs with gentle hands as you swing your legs around him.

When you face Pope, the sight that greets you is even better than you could have imagined.

He eyes you hungrily, carnally, his brow dark and hair curled more than you've ever seen. But your eyes are taken to where his fingers are sunk knuckle-deep into Frankie, pumping them slowly. You moan as he digs them in deeper before curling them, repeating the beckoning motion until Frankie’s belly twitches. At the tells of his orgasm, Pope removes the digits slowly, deaf to Frankie’s desperate begging. You watch, mute, as Pope then takes the bottle of lube from beside him, pouring it onto his cock with a quiet moan, jacking himself before pressing his tip to Frankie’s hole. You feel the man below you tense slightly, and you stroke his thighs, fallen open on either side of Santi, with soothing fingers. When he relaxes, one of Pope’s hands meets yours on his flesh, the other helping to guide himself in. You watch as his length is swallowed, breathing shallow, listening to any noise the pair make. Frankie’s ragged groan, the way he chants Pope, Jesus, fuck, his bruising grip back on your hips, Pope’s answering growl as his eyes roll to the ceiling before fluttering shut. When he bottoms out, you watch as his stomach flexes, eyes then drifting lower, where you can only see the coarse hair at the base of his cock, the rest of it buried inside Frankie. You feel your face crease as your stomach turns molten.

Your hips drop to the swell of Frankie’s stomach, searching for any kind of friction. It should be impossible to be this constantly turned on. You move your hips as Pope drags his cock in and out of Frankie once, twice, murmuring how tight he is, how pretty, how good, before his eyes find yours.

‘You want her to sit on your face, pretty boy?’ Santiago purrs at the man over your shoulder.

‘Oh, fuck, please.’ Frankie moans.

Pope jerks his chin at you, sending you shuffling clumsily backwards, blinded by how badly you need to feel something, eyes fixed again to where he thrusts in and out of the younger man, angling your hips above Frankie’s face. You only see his mouth open, tongue already out to lick a fat stripe through your folds, before he pulls you roughly down, moaning against you.

‘Jesus - fuck -’ you hiss, trying to jerk away. It’s too much, too soon, but Frankie is too strong, too desperate to taste you. Your hand flies out Santi’s chest, scratching his skin before trying to find purchase higher up. You take his neck between your thumb and fingers as Frankie eats at you, his mouth harsh and hungry as it sucks and licks. Santi stutters out a groan as you tilt his head at you and squeeze.

‘Make him come,’ you murmur, ‘Make him come, baby, and then you can show me what else you wanna do with us.’

Santi grins and pants against you, his hips faltering for a moment as he leans his neck further into the cradle of your hand. He nods quickly, eyes glazing and soft. You smile back at him, squeezing again, pleased.

‘Frankie always said you were a good soldier, Santiago,’ you coo. ‘Should have known what you really needed was to be told what to do.’

‘Fuck you.’ He grins against your lips.

You answer it with a pathetic, needy little whine.

‘Mm, yes please, baby.’

Frankie takes the moment to suck particularly hard at your clit, and you feel your face crumple - one hand scrabbling at the younger man’s belly, the one at Santi’s neck now gripping the shoulder of the man fucking him. Frankie works diligently at your cunt, anchoring your hips to him as he devours you ravenously, letting the tip of his nose rest just inside your entrance as he flicks your bud with his tongue, swirling it in circles as you grind against him.

This orgasm comes slow, like wading through treacle. It drips down your spine as you curve over Frankie, gasping and shuddering, so breathless that even Pope slows down. Frankie must feel you jolt and twitch above him, lapping up the last of your cum before he releases you from his grip. You lift your hips quickly, needing reprieve, aftershocks still knocking through you as you pant against Santi’s chest.

‘So good,’ you breathe, loud enough for Frankie to hear, ‘So good to me, baby boy, aren’t you?’

Pope presses a kiss to your hair as you work a fist around Frankie’s cock, squeezing his base. He jumps beneath you, a heady, keening noise wailing from his now unoccupied mouth, and you squeeze him tighter, pumping him once, twice, his shaft slick with your juices and his precum.

‘You’ll make him come.’ Pope warns, and you hum against him, forehead just above his sternum. You’re too lost in the way his cock looks as it disappears into Frankie.

The door opens so quietly you don’t hear it, but Santi does. How he keeps his wits about him despite what’s happening is beyond you. He stills his movements inside Frankie, and you feel his damp breath against your forehead, head dipping as he nudges your cheek with his jaw, turning your face towards it.

‘Look who’s home.’ He murmurs into your ear.

Your stomach swoops.

Joel stands in the doorway. His nose and brow are rosy from working in the sun, your favourite flannel draped over his broad shoulders, a grin twisting his lips as he takes the scene in. His eyes dip from yours to your tits, to the way your body curls over Frankie’s. He takes in the man laying beneath you - his face shining with your cum, blissed and fucked out. The rise and fall of his tummy, the way his thighs are splayed to make room for Pope. The way Santi can’t help but flex inside him, earning a ragged groan from both of them, up the other man’s torso, his neck, to the dark eyes watching him back. It’s breathtaking.

Joel cocks his head.

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ he drawls, ‘Y’all make such a pretty picture.’

You swallow loudly, letting your head fall back to Santi’s warm shoulder, panting before looking back at him. Something swirls in your gut, and you speak before even realising.

‘Come here,’ you whisper, voice cracking. ‘Come here and make it even prettier, daddy.’

The three of you watch as Joel steps towards you, letting the door fall shut behind him.

help with spanish translations from @/urmomsgnocchi's invaluable post here. if there are inaccuracies, please drop me a message <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller x frankie morales x reader

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gffa · 6 months

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TAKING A CLOSER LOOK AT THE JEDI ORDER IN STAR WARS CANON, PART IV [A Meta/Reference Guide on AO3] Aka, SO WHAT DO THE JEDI SAY AND DO IN THE ACTUAL CANON? This is the third part in my series of Jedi Culture and Teachings in Canon, where I have officially crossed the 100k after four years of working on this project, everyone congratulate me! And also send me prayers and strength because I still have something like two dozen novels to comb through and probably half a hundred more comics. So what's the point of all this? Well, first of all, I enjoy doing it, it's surprisingly fun to collate all of these citations! But it's also meant as a reference guide for if you want write meta about the themes and actions of the Jedi in the narrative or if you want some ideas for what's in the canon for wordbuilding so you can write fic or build further on what's already there! Do what you want with it, babes, I put all this together so you don't have to dig through 500 different pieces of Star Wars to find out if they tell you whether or not Jedi younglings have ever tried to toast a block of cheese with a lightsaber. (Spoiler alert: They absolutely did try it and it was a disaster and I love every one of those hellion younglings.) This is a guide to pretty much anything I could think of as relevant to the Jedi--worldbuilding on how the Force feels to use, descriptions of the Jedi Temple, any school classes the Jedi had, attitudes towards the Jedi from the public, why the Jedi decide to join any given conflict, all the swear words they use, anything I could get my hands on regarding Jedi healing--all of it is put into these guides and this is another 25k+ of reference for you to nerd out about if you want. The guide is broken down into seven sections as before:

How the Force Works

Jedi Culture & Philosophy & Teachings

Jedi As a People

Psychic Space Wizards Doing Psychic Space Wizard Things

Jedi Temple (Living Quarters and Dining Halls!)

Jedi Outreach, Politics, and the Bigger Galaxy

Jedi, Buddhism, and Everything Else

#star wars #jedi order #reference #resource #meta

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wonryllis · 3 months

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previous poll won fic: watermelon sugar ( jake )

TEASER!!!

GOT MY EYES ON YOU (revamp) · heeseung

strangers to lovers classical trope, college au, popular frat guy with quiet girl trope, quite literally only has eyes for his girl, loves to make her heart race tropes kinda thing. lotss of fluff, smut, some sprinkles of angst and a happy ending. typical popular frat & basketball captain!heeseung with his shy and inexperienced!angel. the always chased after guy chasing someone for the first time. the 'fuck i didn't know i got the hots for someone like that' trope. my writing was not that good then so will be heavily revamping this series into a oneshot(new scenes) with probably the third installment included. like 15k word vomit probably??

DADDY ISSUES: MY LITTLE GIRL (revamp) · jay

neighbour to lovers, age gap (like 7 years), romance, smut, comfort angst, fluff, happy ending, doctor(might change that)!jay with his doll!girl, heavy on daddy issues and dark topics alike. jay literally always at his girl's beck and call, he cares about you a lottttt trope. the "i know you can do it, but let me do it for you" trope. did i mention it starts with jay babysitting you? kinda ddlg concept idk? he's like your pillar, comfort person and just everything you have ever needed. practically your dream man come to life. first part was 16k so will include the next part and make it a oneshot but if it gets like 25k-30k then i'll probably do it in two parts.

CALL ME DESTINY (new) · jake

an online to offline love au, loosely based off of the cdrama love o2o, college setting, smut, literally tooth rooting fluff and crack, angst... what's that? dumb x dumber couple with their fed up friends, slight misunderstandings and miscommunications but it's just full of crack no hard feelings. flirty nerd!jake with his online game mentor!crush. know each other online and offline but don't know it's the same person. the 'im crazy about her but i don't have the guts to tell her' trope. they're just so over each and everyone can see it but them, about 30-40% done. hmm i got no idea how long it'll be maybe 10k or more not sure.

#☆ ! polls #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen fluff #enhypen oneshots #enhypen heeseung imagines #enhypen heeseung smut #enhypen jay imagines #enhypen jay smut #enhypen jake imagines #enhypen jake smut

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scoonsalicious · 2 months

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Unwanted, Chapter 1: Unarmed, Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: (For this part only) Following the events of CA:CW, Tony Stark has offered Steve Rogers an olive branch of sorts to bring The Avengers back together. You, CTO of Stark Industries and head of Innovation & Technology for the Avengers' Initiative, have your doubts, as you're not quite ready to forgive Captain America for ripping your family apart just yet. Steve had one condition, however, when agreeing to return to the team, one that's going to turn your life upside down and inside out: If he's coming back to join The Avengers, he's bringing his best friend, Bucky Barnes, with him.

Warnings: (For this part only) Language (obviously), minor mention of alcohol, I'm obviously on Team Tony during the CW; don't come for me, awful jokes, minor use of (Y/N). As always, if I missed any, please let me know.

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Here's a little preview of Unwanted. In it's current form, it's standing at about 50k words, with about 25k still in editing, and I'm maybe about half done with writing the entire thing? I'm not going to lie, it starts out cute and fluffy, but it's gonna get real angsty and painful. Dear Reader has unresolved emotional trauma and Bucky doesn't understand the importance of boundaries in 21st century relationships. This piece has been my baby for several months now; I really hope ya'll enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you'd like to be added!) @blackhawkfanatic

"You're sure you're cool with this, Boss?" you asked Tony Stark, for what was probably the ten thousandth time in the last hour. The two of you were sitting by yourselves off in a corner of the common area of the Avengers Tower while the rest of your team congregated around the bar, eagerly anticipating the official return of Captain America to the Avengers. That, by itself, would be enough to warrant a gathering of Earth's mightiest heroes, but what had everyone in attendance talking was the fact that Steve Rogers wouldn't be returning alone.

Your billionaire employer sighed and swirled his glass of Laphroaig, the amber liquid sloshing along the sides of the tumbler. "I don't love it, Pocket, but it was Cap's only condition for coming back into the fold, and since Barton, Wilson, and Maximoff all went off the reservation with him, it seemed a small price to pay to get everyone back under one roof." He took a swig of his whiskey and smacked his lips.

You couldn't help but smile at his use of your nickname. Thor had inadvertently given it to you when you first met the God of Thunder years ago, remarking for everyone to hear that you were so small and tiny, he could tuck you into his pocket and abscond away with you to Asgard. Somehow, it stuck. You'd hated it at first; it had felt dismissive and condescending, which of course meant that it soon became the only thing the members of your team called you, but the more they used in their daily lives, the more you actually came to love it. It was a brand new, unique identity that came to embody the person you’d become, and the past you’d worked so hard to put behind you. You were more likely to answer to 'Pocket,' now, than you were your legal name, and you were grateful for it.

"Besides," Tony continued with a shrug, "if letting the Barnes thing go means we get the band back together, I'm willing to be the bigger person about it."

You stared at him, impressed. "Well look at you. When did you get so emotionally evolved?"

"Since Pepper told me I needed to start seeing a therapist or she’d leave me once and for all," he admitted to you with a cheeky wink; you both knew that, though Tony drove his partner, Pepper Potts, absolutely insane sometimes, she loved him far too much to ever walk away from him for good. That didn’t stop the threats, though. Lord knows he tried her patience. In your opinion, the woman was a saint.

Your eyes widened at the revelation and you let out a low whistle of appreciation. "You're going to therapy? Wow. Tony, That's amazing. I'm proud of you."

"Oh please," Tony scoffed, "I have much more important things to do than sit on a couch and spill my feelings. Besides, my secrets are too valuable to divulge to an actual human being. I just trained FRIDAY on therapeutic conversational datasets so she can handle all that psychological mumbo jumbo and then I paired that with BARF's augmented reality-- it's seriously the platinum standard in mental healthcare. No awkward silences or judgmental stares, just pure efficiency. You should try it; it’d do you wonders. And the best part? No copays."

You chuckled as you took a sip of your pineapple and Malibu. "Yeah, okay. That completely tracks for you," you told him with a smile. "So, what did Dr. FRIDAY tell you that got you to change your mind about the Barnes situation?"

Furrows appeared between Tony's eyebrows as he took another sip of whiskey to buy time for collecting his thoughts. There was still so much pain in him where Bucky Barnes was concerned. You'd worked for him in some capacity for nearly fifteen years and you'd never seen him as defeated as he'd been when he got off that Quinjet from Siberia. He'd been bloodied, battered and utterly broken, body and soul. Seeing him like that had shattered you, and you never wanted to live through something like that again.

Tony ran you through his experience with his therapeutic innovation, and you had to admit, it was impressive. The system had helped him realize that Bucky Barnes wasn't responsible for the heinous crimes Hydra had brainwashed him into completing, and so his anger over the death of his parents, while justified, had been misdirected.

"Once I processed that, it was a quick jump to realizing we can't be the best version of the Avengers if we only have half the team at home, and it's innocent people who would pay the price for it. So, when I reached out to Cap and he agreed to come back if I agreed to let him bring Barnes with him, well..." Tony trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand toward the where the rest of the team was waiting.

"So, you and Rogers are just, what? Good then? All water under the bridge?" you asked him, mild irritation clouding your voice.

"Oh, absolutely not." Tony took another sip of whiskey. "I can work with him again, and I'm glad to, but we're not going to be braiding each other's hair anytime soon."

"Good," you said, raising your glass in a mock toast to Tony. "I'm not quite ready to forgive him on your behalf just yet." Tony had essentially saved your life when you first met him, and he’d continued to support and guide your career to heights you could have never imagined. You'd started as a systems analyst and mechanical engineer at Stark Industries fresh out of college, and under Tony’s mentorship, it wasn’t long before you found yourself rising to the position of the company’s Chief Technical Officer, second in command only to Pepper, now that Tony had passed on the reins to her. All this happened long before he'd ever brought you in to work with him on the Avengers Initiative, and now you spent the majority of your time heading up their Technology and Innovation Department, as well.

Any kind of healthy respect you might have had for your boss had died out a long, long time ago, because Tony Stark was Tony Stark, but now he was just Tony-- more like an annoying older brother you loved dearly, whose name just happened to be on your paychecks. You owed him everything and that had earned him your unwavering loyalty. You'd follow him to hell and back again if he asked it of you, though he knew he’d never have to; you’d be paving the path there right alongside him.

The sound of laughter made its way across to you from the other side of the room and you felt warmth at the sound-- everyone, together again and happy. Just a few short months ago, you never would have been able to imagine the scene before you, not after the fight in Berlin and its brutal aftermath. You had thought for sure that this little family you'd found yourself in the middle of had been destroyed beyond repair.

So, you might have had your own reasons to be pissed at Steve Rogers.

"What's Barnes like?" you asked Tony. Having only ever glimpsed him from a distance, or from behind a computer monitor, you'd utilized all the resources at your disposal to dig up as much information on the Winter Soldier as possible, but even your skills hadn't been able to get you what simply didn't exist. "You know I don't like unknown quantities."

Tony seemed to think for a moment. "You mean, aside from being a brainwashed, murderous assassin?"

"Tony," you chastised. You knew that Barnes had spent a good deal of time in Wakanda before coming home to New York, working on having the words that triggered his homicidal alter-ego neutralized. Rogers may not always acted rationally when it came to making decisions about his oldest friend, but you were sure he wouldn’t be bringing Barnes back to the Tower if he posed a serious danger to the rest of you. Right?

"Fine," Tony said, with a typical exaggerated sigh. "Aside from being a former brainwashed, murderous assassin; better?" You rolled your eyes but nodded. "Don't really know, didn't care enough to ask. I'll be happy as long as he doesn't start murdering us all in our sleep. Cap vouches for him, so that counts for something. Maybe not as much as it did once upon a time, but something. But T’Challa seems to think he’s harmless enough now, so that’s good enough for me."

You nodded, taking another sip of your pineapple and Malibu, then leaned back, pensive. "Oh, God," you said after a moment of thought, sitting up in alarm. "You don't think it’s going to be like having an entire extra Rogers around, do you? All '40s morality and emotional repression? Because I am so over having him police my language." It wasn't that you had anything against Captain America as an Avenger, but there was only so much of the Boy Scout act you could take before you started getting nauseous. And okay, fine, you weren't too proud to admit it-- there was a not-so-small part of you that still hadn't forgiven him for what you saw as his blatant betrayal of Tony when he refused to sign the Accords. You'd promised to play nice, though, for the sake of your family, but your personal relationship with The Star-Spangled Man had taken heavy damage since Berlin.

Tony chuckled. "As if you'd ever let Cap's presence keep you from a good profanity. I should put out a swear jar. We could fund that crisis algorithm project of yours off your mouth alone."

"Fuck you, Tony," you uttered with a chuckle, fully aware that he had your number. You never met a four-letter word you didn’t fall immediately in love with.

"And look at that," Tony said with a smirk, "I just made another dollar. Hey FRIDAY, open up a new savings account and deposit a dollar into every time Pocket has a potty mouth."

"On it, Boss," the AI replied cheerfully.

You swore at Tony a few more times for good measure. "I fully intend to financially bleed you dry now, asshole."

"Oh no, I'm shaking in my custom Tom Ford's," Tony mockingly bemoaned, putting his feet, enclosed in the aforementioned ridiculously expensive loafers, up on the coffee table.

Raised voices from the other side of the room caught your attention. You stood up and craned your neck, trying to see what had caused the commotion. "I think they're here, Boss," you said.

"Alright," Tony said, standing up and putting an arm around your shoulder, "big smiles, kiddo. Remember, we're supposed to be happy about this." You suppressed a chuckle as you watched Rogers present Bucky Barnes to the rest of the team. Everyone was welcoming; you wouldn’t have expected any less, but as you watched their body language, the only word that came to mind was guarded. And you completely understood; The Winter Soldier’s reputation had preceded him, after all. There were hugs for Rogers, of course, but no one made any attempt to reach out to his friend.

Despite your overall annoyance with Rogers, you couldn't help but feel some degree of happiness for the giant oaf. When you'd been assigned on a mission with him (which happened fairly frequently, as he was so pathetically abysmal with anything having to do with technology) and ended up having to hole up in a safehouse for an extra couple of days while waiting for extraction, he'd started opening up to you about James Buchanan Barnes, and the reminiscing had made him so happy, you encouraged Steve to tell you everything about this Bucky. After that, the trouble was getting Rogers to stop telling his Bucky stories. If he wasn't sharing tales about growing up with his best friend during the Great Depression and all the absolute mischief they got into, he was sharing war stories of their time together with the Howling Commandos. He'd even shared his grief with you– how painful it had been to watch Barnes fall from that train and the guilt he carried for not being able to save him. He’d confessed to you once that, when he went into the ice, fully prepared to die, there was a part of him that was relieved to be reunited with Barnes in the next life, and waking up some 70 years later to a world where he was still alive but Bucky was still gone had broken his heart all over again. And yet, here they were– together in the next life, after all. If you were a different kind of person, you’d say it was a goddamn miracle.

Because of the way Rogers described his best friend in those old stories, you were expecting Bucky Barnes to come swaggering along next to him, with a cocksure tilt to his head and a panty-dropping smirk playing along his lips, but the man who accompanied Steve was the furthest thing from that.

He shuffled behind Rogers slowly, looking at the floor and avoiding making eye contact with anyone else from the team. His hair hung long and limp, curtaining off his face as though it were a protective barrier. Though, if it was keeping him away from everyone else, or everyone else away from him, you couldn't be sure. He was much thinner than you'd anticipated, especially for a super soldier– though still extremely muscular, giving you the impression that it had been a long time since he'd let himself indulge in anything more than the bare minimum amount of calories he needed for survival. Tilting your head, you tried to steal a glance at his infamous metal arm, the thing of legends that had turned him from a run-of-the-mill assassin into the stuff of waking nightmares.

But the sleeve of his jacket hung limp, only empty space where the appendage should have been.

Curious. He'd come to Tony Stark's home unarmed. Your hand flew to your mouth to try and stop the uncontrollable snicker that broke loose at your own stupid joke. Tony elbowed you gently in the ribs to shut you up, and you hoped you were too far away and the others too distracted by Steve's introductions to notice you, but that thought flew right out the window when Bucky Barnes' head snapped up at the sound, his eyes locking onto yours from across the room.

"Holy shit," you breathed, knowing another dollar would go into Tony's digital swear jar, but damn if the man didn't have the most striking blue eyes you had ever seen. There were dark circles under them, and he looked incredibly tired, yeah, but they were beautiful. You didn't mean to stare, but you found you couldn't look away, either, and so the two of you were locked into some sort of impromptu staring contest. The longer you looked at him, the more you could sense an overwhelming sadness coming from him, as well as a level of wariness at being in a room full of strangers. It was almost overwhelming.

But then, just as suddenly as it began, the spell was broken. Blinking once, Bucky looked away and you felt the tension vanish from between you.

"What was that about?" Tony asked you in a low singsong voice.

"I have no idea," you answered, honestly. There had been so much pain and loneliness in his eyes. You'd seen eyes like that before, when you were younger and looked at your own reflection in the mirror following a scalding shower with your skin scrubbed raw and bloody. You suppressed a shiver.

Finally, Steve managed to disengage himself and Bucky from the other Avengers and began making his way toward you and Tony. Up close, you were struck by how tall Bucky was. He had to be at least a foot taller than you, if not more. And God, he was handsome. Granted, in a kind of heroin-chic sort of way, but still. A couple of good nights' sleep, a few good meals, some light personal grooming, and... well, there was a very good chance you were going to be in trouble once he got his shit together, that was for sure.

"And Buck," Steve was saying, drawing you out of your ogling, "This is our resident computer genius, Pocket (Y/L/N). You ever need help with anything technology-related, she's your girl."

"A bit of an over-simplified version, Rogers," you said, sticking your hand out to shake Bucky’s, "but yeah, that about covers it."

Bucky looked at you, then down at your hand, making no move to take it.

"What the hell kind of name is Pocket?" he asked, voice rough as though he hadn’t been using it a lot. Pulling your hand back, you shot him an annoyed glare.

"I don't know," you oozed back sarcastically. "What the hell kind of name is Bucky?"

"It's his nickname, Pocket," Steve supplied helpfully, though not without a trace of confusion. You gave him an annoyed, pointed look.

"No shit, Rogers." You turned back to Bucky and spoke slowly, as if to a child. "So, what do you think Pocket is, then?"

"Oh," said Bucky, catching on. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. "Gotcha; m'sorry about that. My manners are rusty from a severe lack of use."

You didn't mean it, but your mouth curved up into a hint of a smile, too. And then, almost as if you couldn't stop yourself from doing it, you found yourself saying "I see you've arrived unarmed."

There was a long, heavy beat of silence as Steve and Tony stared at you, mouths slightly agape, and you wondered if you'd made a critical error. You were just about to punch yourself in the face and claim you had a concussion and therefore couldn't be held responsible for what you said when Bucky burst into laughter.

It was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard, and it was contagious. Through your own laughter, you risked a glance up at Steve. He was looking back and forth between you and Bucky, an indiscernible look in his eyes, and you couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since he'd heard his best friend laugh. Hell, you wondered how long it had been since Bucky Barnes had laughed at all.

"Pocket," Tony groaned, palming his face, "that was truly terrible, even for you."

"I'm sorry," you said, trying to catch your breath through your burst of giggles. "It just slipped out-- I couldn’t help it. You know once these things come into my head, they just bounce around in there until they fall out. I didn't mean it."

Steve smiled at you. "So that's what you were snickering at," he said, amused. Damn that enhanced super soldier hearing. Rogers didn't need to be so nosy with it.

You shrugged. "What can I say? Bad jokes are my superpower. Don't be jealous that all you got was super strength and a six pack, Rogers."

Bucky laughed again, then nudged Steve playfully with his elbow. "I like this one, Stevie," he said. "She's funny."

You weren't sure why, exactly, but something in Bucky's words turned your insides into a warm puddle of goo.

Oh, you were going to be in trouble, indeed.

Next Part ->

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x you #mcu bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n

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hyunjinspark · 9 months

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star lost with you | hyunjin au | part 16

pairing: idol! hyunjin x artist! reader

genre: friends to lovers, so much angst, smut, fluff, set in the idolverse, mutual pining, unrequited love, forbidden romance, slowburn (!!!) soulmate au, star-crossed lovers

synopsis: working in a quaint little art store, you’ve had the honor of meeting all kinds of people, but you’ve never met somebody like him. there were many reasons hyunjin returned to his hometown; a getaway from the ephemeral and fast-paced life of the city, so he could fall in love with life again. he thought he was prepared for everything, to study art in the way that he’s always wanted to, but what he didn’t anticipate was meeting you. hwang hyunjin realises that sometimes, the best things in life happen unplanned.

word count: 25K

warnings: cursing, drinking, mutual pining, mostly just a lot of angst, yn is insanely in love its actually a lot, making out, jealousy, grinding, hyunjin is a little mean, sexual tension, tons of new characters, a lot of coincidences, mature content, angst

a/n: soo hyunjin dropped contradicting and somehow it's absolutely perfect for this chapter. this part does also have undertones of 'love untold' in it too, and im very excited to finally be writing the city arc! this was a long time coming and i really hope you enjoy it. theres tons of angst in this so im sorry about that. please get comfortable with snacks and a blanket to read. you can listen to my star lost playlist here!

important: all works are fiction, and do not in any way represent the real personalities or real people, they exist only as faceclaims, and are fictional characters.

masterlist

The girl next to him was pretty, in a timeless Marilyn Monroe kind of way. She had striking features, and even from this little interaction you knew her face would be burned into your memory. She was standing next to Hyunjin so simply, as if that wasn’t a place that you had been pining for all these months.

Her hand rested on the small of his back, animated eyes as she talked to him. Even now, he looked as good as the day he left. The trench coat fit his body just right, and he was so much taller than everyone else in this shop. His hair had grown longer in your absence and chocolate strands brushed his shoulders.

The last time you saw him, he kissed you until your lips were bruised, and his pants were stained with cum.

Right now… he was pretending like you didn’t even exist.

The woman looked over her shoulder, eyes meeting yours briefly as if she’d felt your burning gaze. You ought to be embarrassed that you were caught staring, yet you stood your ground. You expected a sneer, but she smiled at you — the polite kind of smile you give strangers as you pass them in the street — before turning to him again.

Monstrous curiosity clawed at your chest, gut turning in envy. She reached into her purse, an expensive-looking red bag that you couldn’t afford in any lifetime, and pulled out a black credit card. Before she could hand it into the cashier though, Hyunjin’s arm reached out, stopping her. He was touching her now, if only so briefly, but a wave of debilitating nausea overcame you. You could hear him saying, “Please, let me get this”

You were all the way across the store, but you’d be able to hear him among a million voices. The familiarity of his kindness pulled at your heartstrings.

The woman didn’t protest, probably because Hyunjin was the biggest star in this city, and he could afford anything he wanted, and everything she could ask for.

“That art building is just a few blocks down from here. I can tell you the way. It’s pretty easy” The boy you’d asked for help said. He had an employee uniform on, and a silver name tag that read “Jae”.

You’d quickly forgotten your purpose for being out and about in the streets of Seoul. You’d come here for a reason, to have a glimpse at the building you’d be studying at, the place you’d been dreaming of. Yet…you’d never longed for something as much as you did for Hyunjin.

“Yeah, um, thank you” You mumbled half-heartedly, eyes still on Hyunjin, “Can you just…give me a minute?”

It was rude of you to ask for help but not take it, only because you were distracted by a boy. “Sure, uh…take your time” The employee stepped away, not really caring about your internal drama.

Hyunjin’s back was still to you. You’d been worried about why you couldn’t contact him this entire time. A part of you was relieved; if he was here that meant he was okay, even after disappearing entirely off the grid.

He grabbed the paper bag they’d purchased, a blue cereal box peeking out, threatening to topple. It didn’t fit in the bag, but he made no effort to fix it. He didn’t seem too involved in the task. They had finished bagging their snacks, and that meant they’d leave.

There was nobody in the shop anymore, except you and them. A black car was parked just outside. It was probably his. Once he got in the car…he’d be far away from you, down a thousand identical streets and hidden between skyscrapers you’d never find him in. There were ten million people in this city. How would you ever find him again? You had no fucking way of contacting him.

He walked past where you stood in the aisle, and your pulse was pounding in your ears, tunnel vision shielding everything else.

You’d been searching for him this entire time…you couldn’t just let him walk away.

It was now or never.

He pushed the door open, and outside air swirled in.

It snapped you into action.

“Hyunjin?” Your voice wavered, and it wasn’t loud enough for this city. Your plea was drowned amongst sirens, traffic and noise.

But he stopped walking, shoulders tensing.

He heard you.

Hurriedly, you stepped towards him, navigating through the messy snacks aisle. Your hands were shaking, and you pushed them into your jacket pockets to hide that. The effect he had on you was embarrassing, even at such a time.

“Can I just talk to you for a second?” You asked, hoping you didn’t sound as desperate or nervous as you felt.

He turned around to look at you, and his knuckles were white from how tight he was gripping their bags. The grocery must be heavy, and even in a circumstance like this, you worried for him. His gaze on you was unrecognizable. It was almost like it wasn’t really him at the moment…as if he’d been replaced by a carbon copy, which was colder and meaner, and didn’t feel anything for you.

His eyes zeroed in on you, and you suddenly felt so conscious. You wish you’d dressed up better, instead of this dull, beige coat you picked off a thrift shop back home. This was the first he was seeing you after months, and you weren’t prepared. You shot him a smile. Quick and rough, and forced, but a smile nonetheless.

He had to know you were happy to see him. Inside, you were screaming.

The girl at his side looked at you again, eyebrows raised in confusion. Her earlier politeness had worn off, and now she just looked bothered. Who even was this woman?

There’d be time for questions later though, because she pulled at his arm, “Come on. We’ll be late Hyunjin” Her tone had authority to it, a kind of tone you’d never used with him.

“Can we talk?” You repeated your question. The woman wrinkled her nose, and now that you really looked at her…she was much older than you. She had expensive taste, clearly, and an aura of confidence you could never possess.

Hyunjin’s mouth parted, and then closed again, like he was having trouble speaking. There was so much to say, after all. But even if he couldn’t talk right now, you’d be happy to just know if he was okay.

You wanted to ask him for his number, but you waited, giving him the time to say whatever was on his mind. There must be a lot on it. It had to be his company pulling the strings and making him cut off all contact with you. He had to have been forced somehow, because he wasn’t that kind of person.

The longer he said nothing, the dizzier you felt. The truth was becoming obvious. Maybe it wasn’t all that far-fetched to believe that he had cut you off….on purpose.

Your chest tightened impossibly, a horrible feeling building up in your gut. There were lines in his forehead, and guilt in his eyes. Your nails dug into your palms as you tightly clenched your fists, but you were numb to that pain.

But it had to be a misunderstanding, because Hyunjin would never do that to you, would he? In fact, he’d…never do that to anyone. He was far too kind to resort to something like complete radio silence.

“I’m sorry” He spoke.

Your knees almost gave out at his voice. You’d missed it so much, and your heart was catching up to your mind, to register what he said.

Sorry for what?

He swallowed hard, steely gaze meeting your confused one, “I’m sorry… I don’t have time for this”

Before you could even process those words, he had walked out into the cold night, leaving you standing in the stupid fucking store, all by yourself. That was all there was to it.

Maybe everything that you knew about Hyunjin was wrong.

»»————-

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you…you do not have authorisation to enter the building” The security guard repeated, for the third time that night, as if you needed any more humiliation right now.

Your cheeks were burning red, and you were trembling from the cold, “Please, he knows who I am. Just ask him”

He was visibly annoyed, “If you don’t have a visitor pass, you have to stay in the lobby, until the employee buzzes you in”

You tightened your coat around yourself, trying to reason, “I can’t get through to him. Just tell him I’m here. He’ll buzz me in, I swear”

He sighed, exasperated by your desperation. You were embarrassed, and shameful, but you didn’t know what else to do. If you went home now, you might cry till you threw up. You’d cry till it was dawn, and until you heard the morning traffic outside your apartment. The only thing stopping you from bawling right now was the watchful eyes of the people around you.

You’re numb inside. You’re so, so confused.

None of it makes any sense, but your brain hurts just thinking about it.

It was so late, everybody was leaving the building, and you were the only one trying to get in. A female employee was buzzing out, pushing through the turnstiles. She looked between you and the doorman, “Something wrong?”

The guard sighed, another indication of how less of a fuck he gave about you, “She says she knows an employee in the building, but she has no visitor pass”

You looked at her, “Can you please just tell him Y/N is here? He’ll understand”

Her gaze softened at the state of you, “What’s his name? I’ll see what I can do”

You told her… and then you waited.

It was embarrassing to be standing there as hundreds of employees exited, eyeing you up, wondering why you were just standing there. The longer it took for him to come, the shakier you felt. Like you’d lose grip of yourself. It was getting chillier, and your insides hurt.

Then you heard his voice. He basically yelled your name, rushing through the crowd of employees, a beeline straight to you, “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

He was like your angel — ashy blonde hair drifting against the air conditioning of the lobby, a red scarf wrapped around his neck. “Oh my god” You stepped ahead, but a silver turnstile separated you from touching him, “I tried calling you”

He placed his card against the scanner, opening the gate so you could enter. There was no time to explain. Immediately, he wrapped his arms around your body. That was the thing you loved about Yeonjun the most. Hug first, questions later.

You buried your face in his neck, squeezing him, “I’m so sorry for just showing up, I needed to see you, Jun”

He pulled back to look at you, “I’m sorry my phone was on silent. I was working on a report, and I lost track of time”

The security guard was looking at the two of you, and he probably assumed you were a couple. He probably thought you were lovers, and if you were…everything might just have been easier. Yeonjun’s eyes narrowed in on your puffy, swollen eyes, “Wait. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Had you overreacted by coming here? He must think it’s an emergency. You musthave overreacted. Your instinct made you apologise, “I’m sorry for coming here like this…”

He shook that thought away like it was nothing, “Come on. We’ll just grab my stuff, and then we can head home, all right?”

You let him lead you to the staff elevator, and he held on tightly to you through it all, which you appreciated. You didn’t want to be alone right now. You observed the office building that Yeonjun worked at. “Your building is…fancy” You mumbled, but your voice was hoarse, and you couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm.

“Yeah” He chuckled, glancing back at you, “Most companies are pretty serious about the security. There’s been a lot of data breaches recently so…”

“It was embarrassing to face off that guard. I thought he’d arrest me or something…by the way he was staring”

Yeonjun laughed, “He’d never do that. He was probably just caught off guard by how pretty you look”

Your chest squeezed at his sudden compliment. You leaned forward, wrapping an arm around his stomach to indulge him in a back hug. It was a strange display of affection for the elevator. But Yeonjun said nothing of it, squeezing your arm, and craning his neck to smile at you.

“We’re here” He told you, and you stepped out into a quiet office floor. After a monotonous and mundane hallway with doors that all looked the same, you arrived at his cubicle. The floors were grey, the doors were dark, and the ceiling was industrial exposed. You’re not sure if this was the best place for comfort right now, but it was all you had. It was better than your empty, soulless apartment.

Yeonjun’s desk was cleaner than you expected, arranged with knick-knacks and clutter. A polaroid of you and him was pinned to the bulletin, next to one of him and Hana. Your eyes trailed across his entire workspace. There were only pictures of Hana.

You stilled.

“Um, I’m sorry. I still need to clean up” He muttered, ripping the polaroids off the wall, as if to show you that he didn’t care. But it was clear to you by how he carefully placed them inside the drawer. He was still in love with her.There was a lump in your throat at the realisation. He hadn’t told you that, and Yeonjun shared everything with you.

He shot you a sheepish smile, “I’m just gonna finish sending an email. You can sit down”

There was a single swivel chair at his desk. “What about you?” You asked.

“I’ve been meaning to get off my feet anyway” He smiled, as you sat down.

You felt like a kid, watching him send the emails, with nothing to do but sit in your thoughts. It was still better than being at home. Alone.

“Do you always work this late?” You asked him, after a while. There was nobody else on the floor.

He shook his head, “No…there was a problem at work, I had to stay longer to figure it out”

“Oh”

He forcefully pushed a button on his keyboard, then turned to you, “So are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

You swallowed, fiddling with the clutter on his desk, rehearsing what happened in your head, and every way sounded stupid. So you mumbled, “It’s not that…important, actually. I should head home”

Yeonjun shut his laptop with a snap. Crossing his arms, he leaned against the desk to look at you, “Come on. Was it not what you expected?”

“Hmm?”

“The art building. That’s why you went out tonight. Is it not as good as you imagined?”

“Oh” You belatedly realised that and held back a bitter laugh, “I didn’t even get to it”

“What? You couldn’t find it?”

“I found him, Jun” You mumbled, staring at your sneakers.

“Found who?” He asked, before the realisation sank in, “Wait, him… as in Hyunjin? How!?”

That was your question too. How did you bump into him out of everyone in this city?

“I…he happened to be at the store that I stopped to ask for directions”

Jun’s eyebrows furrowed, and he knelt to be at eye level with you, “What happened then?”

“He was with some girl”

Without hesitation he said, “His manager?”

Your lip was quivering as you spoke, but you couldn’t be this fucking weak, “Maybe. I don’t really know…”

“It had to be. Hyunjin wouldn’t do that to you”

His faith in him was undeniable, and you felt like you’d break his heart by revealing the rest of the incident to him.

“She probably was. It’s not that, Jun…he walked right past me…I couldn’t even talk to him”

Yeonjun shook his head, “Are you sure he saw you?”

You recalled the look in Hyunjin’s eyes as he dismissed you completely, and the pain in your chest doubled at the reminder, “He saw me.”

“You’re sure?”

You looked at him, eyes filling with tears, “I’m sure.”

Yeonjun recoiled like a shotgun, standing up straight, and you weren’t expecting the immediate anger in his tone, “Why the fuck would he do that?”

You chewed on your lip, hoping it’d stop shaking, wishing you knew the answer to his question, “I don’t know”

“He didn’t even give you his new number?”

A sob built up in your throat, and your head was beginning to pain, “You’re not listening. He ignored me to my face, Jun. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe it was something I said…all those months ago”

“You could never” He scoffed, “It was because of the woman he was with. Hyunjin’s probably not allowed to just talk to someone in public”

“You really think so?”

Yeonjun didn’t even look a little bit worried. He had his hands on his hips, “What else would it be, Y/N? He’d never ignore you. I don’t understand…”

You swallowed, trying to not cry, “Yeah. I just…had to see you. A few months ago, when his number changed, I was really hoping that when I came to the city, I could find him and fix things. There’s no way he’d do that on purpose. Of all people in the world, Hyunjin would never just cut me off without an explanation but…” You sniffled, “He wasn’t even happy to see me there. He just looked fucking disappointed. Like I made a mistake moving here, even though he all of people—” Your voice broke, “he, all of people knows how much I wanted to come here”

“Babe, please don’t cry” Yeonjun reached out, his thumb wiping away a tear. It was futile since you could already taste the salt on your lips.

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, “He talked about how he missed me, I just don’t understand. Like, what even happened?”

“Come here” Yeonjun hugged you, and his t-shirt muffled your cries. He rubbed circles on your back, and you were thankful the floor was vacated, because you felt so stupid crying over a boy. Was Hyunjin even thinking about you right now? He had always hated seeing you cry, and now he was the entire reason for it.

You tightened your grip around him, “I’m sorry I’m ruining your tonight, Jun”

“Y/N” He frowned, pulling back to look at you, “Don’t ever say that again”

“Sorry…”

He looked upset and wiped the traces of tears off your lips, “Stop apologising too. This isn’t your fault”

You nodded, holding him still, “Can I please stay in your apartment tonight? I don’t want to go to my place right now”

He smiled, grabbing your bag off his desk, “I’ve told you before. You’ll always have a bed at my apartment, Y/N” He frowned suddenly, remembering something, “Um…I do have to warn you about something though…”

Maybe it was a mistake coming here. Right across Yeonjun’s apartment window, was a picture of Hyunjin. The billboard was huge, and he was plastered all over it. You almost didn’t recognise him at first. He looked like…a star.

His hair was perfectly in place, and sunglasses were pushed up to his head, like he was the protagonist of some action movie.

“You weren’t kidding about it being huge” You commented, watching from his bedroom.

He came to stand next to you, fiddling with the curtains, “I was hoping they’d change it soon, but Pegasus is pretty good at promoting the band. Downtown, they’re on almost every billboard”

At least now you knew you wouldn’t be going Downtown anymore. It was ironic that Hyunjin was everywhere in the city but out of reach for you. If that woman really was his manager, and he wasn’t allowed to even talk to you in public…then Hyunjin’s life was even tougher than you could have imagined.

Being famous must fucking suck, and being in love with someone famous was…soul-crushing.

“Anyway” He cleared his throat, “I ordered us some Chinese food”

You crossed your arms, you hadn’t realised you were starving, “Thank you, Jun…"

Yeonjun just smiled in return, leading you away from the bedroom window before pulling the curtains on the view. You were glad, because if he didn’t pull you away now, you’re afraid you’d stare at that picture for the rest of your life.

»»————-

The Atelier of the Arts was beautiful.

It was everything you could have imagined, and more. It’s where you’re supposed to spend the next two years of your life. The facade of the building was built almost entirely out of glass, resembling high-end universities you’d only seen in the movies. You felt minuscule in front of the scale and the grandeur of it. Being in Seoul for a few weeks now…you’d realised it was all about towering glass and steel structures, weaved in between all of the imperial history. You just wish you could appreciate it more right now.

A girl at the front desk thankfully told you where to go, and you carefully navigated the hallways until you were at the top floor.

You stared at what was meant to be your classroom. Sunlight cascaded through a transparent glass rooftop, casting a beautiful glow on the plants.

You only see green. There were plants of all kinds, flowers of every color and the air smelled sweet. It smelled citrusy, and like the drink Hyunjin made you on his last night.

The door was made of glass too, a brass knob sparkling against the sunlight.

You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. This isn’t an art studio.

It’s a greenhouse.

Before you had time to retrace your steps, a girl interrupted you, “You’re not lost”

“I’m sorry?”

“Kim Jieong’s new student, right?” She asked, tilting her head at you.

You wonder what it is about you that gave you away. Was it the clothes? Or maybe it’s the bag you’re clutching tightly to your chest, sketchbook peeking out from within it. You’re joining in the middle of an ongoing semester, so you already stood out. “Yeah” You managed to say.

She smiled, proud to have got it correct, “You’re at the right place. The room’s just through there, after the hydrangeas. I’m going in now, if you wanna follow me”

She couldn’t be much older than you, and she’s so well put together.

Her accent was different, like she’s been born and bred in Seoul her whole life. She enunciated everything, frankly, in a way better to you. A denim skirt hung to her ankles, revealing Converse at her feet. Her hair was dirty blonde, tied up perfectly in place, and an amethyst choker sat at her collarbones.

You wonder if you’re underdressed on your first day of class. The creme cardigan you’re in is soft, and it’s comforting to your soul, but it’s not impressive. You found it in a thrift shop in Daejon; perhaps this is a sign you should go shopping here. You’re leading a new life, and you need clothes to match.

The girl was waiting for you to enter, but you’re not ready.

Kim Jieong has been your inspiration for as long as you can remember. He’s painted the most beautiful things known to you — expressing emotions you didn’t even know you had. The fact that he’s beyond those glass doors right now…you’re not ready. Yes…you’ve waited literally all your life, but you never thought it’d actually come to this. You wish you had someone to share this anticipation and excitement with, but all you have is your studio apartment, and its bare, dry walls. You’re trying to be positive, but somedays it feels impossible

A boy stepped through the elevator doors, and his eyes scrambled over your faded creme cardigan, and bag. You’re new here, and he’s clearly not. You can tell from the ease with which he carries himself, and by the way he looks like a picture-perfect rendition of an artist. If you searched “art student” on Pinterest, you’re pretty sure his picture would come up. He’s dressed in denim suspenders, expensive headphones hanging around his neck, paintbrushes tucked into his pockets.

“Hey” He smiled at you, “Are you… the student from Daejon?”

You nodded, holding your bag tighter on your shoulder, happy that he knew of your existence. You’d feared until the last minute that you getting in to the program had been another mess-up, and once you arrived…they’d tell you it was a mistake.

He tilt his head, “What’s your monogram?”

Your monogram. The initials you sign all your paintings with. You tell him your name, “Um…Y/N”

“Oh” He frowned, “I can’t remember if I’ve seen your work”

That’s because he hasn’t. You’ve never had a public exhibition, so how would he recognise you?

“Come on, you can get to know her later” The girl rolled her eyes at him, then looked at you, “Are you coming in…or are we going to chat here the rest of today?”

They didn’t tell you their names, even though you just told them yours. You should ask, but wouldn’t that come off too eager?

“Yeah. Sure” You forced a smile at her, and the girl’s face softened at that. It’s like she wasn’t expecting you to do that, like she expected you to be soulless and cold.

Tentatively, you stepped through the glass door, into the greenhouse-cum-studio. It’s like stepping in a fairytale, navigating through all the plants that jut out, magnificent fantastical flowers you haven’t seen even in the countryside. You reached out and touched a purple flower, the petals are coarse but the flower looked so soft.

You were walking on a metal walkway, a bridge over a little artificial stream. It reminded you so much of Daejon, it’s kind of funny that you’re actually thousands of miles away.

“Crazy place for a classroom, right?” The boy laughed. It’s like he read your mind.

You nodded, “I thought I was at the wrong place”

“You’ll get used to it” The girl looked over her shoulder to tell you. You’re standing between them, as they escort you to your class.

“The hydrangeas” She muttered, pointing to a set of purple flowers as you pass them.

As if stepping into Narnia, the plants suddenly cleared up, revealing a room. It’s big, and there’s an assortment of chairs, tables, easels, shelves, and paint. There’s so much to take in. You watched with wide eyes, and the boy laughed.

“It’s cool, right?” He asked you.

“Yeah” You breathed, “You could say that”

There were already a few students sitting at their easels, but they were too distracted setting up their paints to look up and notice you.

“Um, what are your names?” You ended up asking. Fuck being eager.

“I’m Minnie and that’s Jeonghan” She told you.

“No, I’m Nate. Nobody calls me Jeonghan except my mum” He rolled his eyes.

“Nate” You repeated, “Are you—”

“American? Yes he is, and feel free to call him Jeonghan…” Minnie finished your sentence, as she walked over to her easel.

He laughed, “I moved back to Korea a few years ago to study”

The room filled with people within seconds. There are not too many of you, just twenty, it’s an exclusive program after all. You looked around at the people who are supposed to be your classmates for the next few years. They all looked a little older than you and like they know their way around everything.

There’s only one unmarked empty stool in the corner, and it must be yours. After all, this internship was so exclusive, there wasn’t any space for extras. You took your place, opening up your supplies onto the little table. The stool was comfortable and had a plush back, so you wouldn’t kill your back when you were painting. It was already infinitely better than your set-up at home.

Minnie and Jeonghan took their places too, settling into a comfortable rhythm. Your other classmates greeted them with big smiles, but obviously…they didn’t look at you.

You’d never moved a day in your life, so this was unfamiliar — not knowing anyone in the room, and everything being new. But change was supposed to be good, right? You’d grown tired of stagnation, and so you’d chased this. Perhaps you could try conversing with the girls next to you, but where would you even start? They all knew each other from before. Why would they want to talk to a stranger?

A girl was giggling, settling into her chair, with two other friends, and they were teasing her about something but you don’t know the context. There was a cute boy across from you, and he was setting up his paints. He had earphones in, and was humming to the beat of an unknown song. He glanced up at you absentmindedly, but when your eyes met, your heart stung.

You were trying desperately to not think of Hyunjin.

But you’ve only been here for five minutes and you see Hyunjin in everything around you.

He would fall in love with this place — with the sunlight hitting the wooden boards, with how open it was, and he would probably know the name of every flower here. After all, he had to know to put them in pretty drinks to give to girls like you.

A student sitting opposite you had bleached hair, and she pulled it up into a bun and you thought of him again. Nothing could compare how it felt to card your fingers through his hair, and tug at it when he kissed you. You’d braided it back in his room, and it had been so soft to the touch, slipping through your fingers like sand.

“Hey” Someone tapped on your shoulder, and you pulled yourself out of the hopeless trench of daydreaming about him. You noticed her chunky platform boots first, and then you looked up at her, “Uh, hey”

“You’re the girl from the south?”

It was heartwarming that she started the conversation with you. You smiled, “Yeah. I’m from Daejon—”

“You’re in my spot”

“Sorry?”

“That’s my spot” She repeated, pointing at your seat.

“Oh” You realised. You’d already opened up your bag of supplies so you hurriedly grabbed your sketchbook, shoving it in your tote bag carelessly. Your paintbrushes dropped in the process, rolling off the table, and you wanted to die. Was it possible to be such a fucking cliche and embarrass yourself like this on the first day of class?

The girl made no move to help you, but you shouldn’t expect her to either. You stood up, holding the bag to your chest, and realised you had no place to sit anymore.

Before you could panic about the situation, someone else in the room caught your attention.

Kim Jieong was here.

He was standing in the centre, and you don’t know how the fuck you didn’t notice him until now. He must have just come in.

You stood starstruck, at the worst time possible. He was in a beanie, and a thick coat. He had black-rimmed glasses on, and a slight scruff. He looked like all the pictures you’d seen of him, but better than you even imagined – the right mix of pretention and whimsical.

He was the embodiment of art and of inspiration.

The little girl in you was screaming.

You were transported back to the first painting you ever saw by him. It was in a magazine that Felix had stolen for you off the library racks. As kids, you and Felix had sat on his bedroom floor, flipping through the glossy pages. On the last page though, there was a painting of a lighthouse, with surrealistic waves hitting the shore. There was no article or editorial. Just that picture, with a name on the bottom. Kim Jieong, 2006. You’d ripped the page out, and kept it safe with you, before returning the magazine. You’d felt no guilt then, because it was the most beautiful art you’d seen then.

Kim Jieong, your favorite artist in history, was a real fucking person. He was real, and he was looking at you.

The corner of his lip tilted up, “Hey”

Hey.

You’re going to fucking pass out.

He was talking to you. He knew you existed. “Um, hi” Your voice came out softer than it was, and you hope he couldn’t see the stars in your eyes.

“Can I help you…?”

You could feel the eyes of everyone on you, and you gripped onto your sketchbook tighter, “I’m…the new student”

His eyes widened, “You’re Y/N…?”

He knew your name?

Now he was the one who looked caught off guard, “Shit, I’m sorry I completely forgot you’re coming in today. Nate, can you please help Y/N get a spare stool and easel?”

Nate, the boy you’d met before, smiled, “Of course I can”

Your earlier embarrassment slowly eased. Professor Jieong stepped to you with a poise that only masterminds possessed, “Be honest… Did you have any trouble finding this room? Most students do”

“No, I was just confused because…it’s not really a conventional classroom”

Jieong laughed, “Well, if you liked conventional things, you wouldn’t be here”

“You’re right” You smiled.

He pointed to a corner, “There’s your seat. I’m putting you next to Nate. He can help you out the first week. Even though it’s your first day, don’t worry I’m not going to make you talk about yourself in front of the class or anything like that. I know how much people your age hate that”

You smiled at that, relieved, and finally sat down at what was to be your place for the future. The view from here was so pretty, through the parted indoor trees, you could look out into the city. There were floor-to-ceiling windows sprawled out, and the sun was in your eyes, but you didn’t mind. It must get really hot in the summer, but right now it’s the cusp of winter, and so it was perfect.

“So, how are you liking Seoul, Y/N?” Jieong asked you, stepping in the way, shielding your gaze from the light. It was so early in the morning, but he was full of so much of vigour. You wish you could have energy to match him right now, but lately you just feel drained.

You smiled up at him, observing how the rays formed a halo around his head, “It’s all right…I, uh, I really love the food here.”

Jieong paced across the room, making sure to look at each student, and there was so much comfort in his stance, as he talked to you, “I know you’re joining in the middle of this semester Y/N, and everything is going to feel very jarring. Usually, people get an intro class and some icebreakers so… don’t be afraid to ask me stuff, okay? There’s no stupid questions in here, right?”

“Debatable” Nate mumbled loudly next to you.

“That’s not what you said when I asked about the color combos last week” The girl with bleached hair chimed in.

Jieong grinned, putting his hands on his hips as he came to a stop in the centre, “Haha. Don’t try so hard to make me look bad in front of the new girl”’

You laughed, “Don’t worry about it”

Jieong grinned at you, and you were still reeling from his attention as he talked, “We’re going to start on a new project for the next couple of weeks. I have a couple of field trips planned but today we are just going to explore some basic anatomy, okay?”

There was nothing more to be said. Everybody fell into a rhythm, and Jieong wasn’t even speaking anymore, but he filled the room with his presence. He had such a strong personality and clearly had a good rapport with all his students. You were looking forward to get to know him.

This was such a beautiful room, and you had only been here a few minutes, but you were endlessly inspired. It reminded you of Aera’s, filling you with so much creative energy, you were bursting at the seams. You hoped that this emotion wouldn’t be lost on you. This was the first genuine excitement you’d felt since….since what happened in the shop.

It’s been a few days, or a few weeks, you can’t really tell. Yet you play it in your head over and over again, trying to connect the dots. You give up every time, because nothing justifies what happened that night, and you don’t realise that most of your sleepless nights in this city pass by…just like that.

»»————-

There were good days, and bad days.

There was a separation between the art studio, and the rest of your life. In the studio, you were content, because you were distracted. At home…was another story.

Your apartment was a blank canvas, and as the weeks passed, you breathed life into each corner. The walls filled up slowly with the new artwork you created, with your works in progress from the apprenticeship. There were a few plants in your room to remind you of Daejon’s lushness.

You immersed yourself in the whirlwind of city life. Seoul sucked you in deep. You found a bakery you like, a grocery store you frequent, an art shop that fed your supplies.

It’s strange, to have good days, but nobody to share it with. It feels pointless to be excited about something but having to keep it to yourself.

You were still teetering on the edge, you hadn’t visited nightclubs or bars — you found no time between the classes. The people at the apprenticeship were talented, in a way that made you doubt yourself but push harder. You tried to talk to the people around you, but you only saw them in classes, and your friendships didn’t exist beyond those canvases.

It was hard to make friends in the city. You hadn’t predicted the isolation that would come with moving here. Jeongin and you would occasionally bump into you at the stairwell, and that would be the most of your social interaction. You made time to meet Yeonjun each weekend, and he helped you buy some basic furniture for your apartment; a coffee table, a dresser, a mirror. They even helped you carry your new mattress up the stairs, and you invited them in that night for some wine, as a thank you.

You liked to think that you’ve settled into a routine as you washed the dishes in your new home, listening to the hum of the city traffic. In the quiet evenings that you spend with yourself, you drifted into daydreams and thought about him, but you stopped yourself before the longing gets too bad.

Your apartment is so small. There’s no space in your life to be sad.

You’re supposed to be living your dream after all.

»»————-

The sun in the art studio never bothered you. Instead, felt warm on your skin, energizing you.You attempted to channel the beauty of the room into each pencil stroke. It was hard to focus on your art, sketching out a few basics as your professor talked over a few prompts. This was only the beginning, so you were taking it slow. It felt like it had been ages since you drew, and your skills were getting rustic.

When everyone was busy and distracted, Jieong came to you. “Doing okay, Y/N?” His voice was low to not disturb the other students, and you nodded.

“I’m good…just trying to get the hang of things”

“I understand” He smiled, and he was bent over to speak to you, “You’ll soon figure out the pattern. We experiment every class and you’re free to work on whatever medium you want. Don’t think of this as an art lesson, okay? It’s…refining your existing skills”

You smiled, “Yeah. I know I missed a few but I’m excited for the rest of the classes. I feel like I’ve hit a roadblock…with my own work, I end up only making the same kind of paintings every time”

Jieong nodded, like he’d heard this a million times, “But that’s exactly what I’m here for, okay? You can talk to me about anything you want. There’s also going to be a couple of field trips this semester, and you can meet some other mentors. In case you realise you hate my methods”

You laughed, continuing to sketch away, “I doubt that’s possible. I…I’m looking forward to those though”

“And not to sound too forward but…you look like you haven’t slept in a week, kid” He commented, with a chuckle, but there was no malice in his tone. Just a genuine observation.

“I haven’t” You admitted.

“Nervous?”

If nervous and heartbroken were the same emotion. Then yes, you were more nervous than anything. You settled and said, “This just means a lot to me”

“What brought you to Seoul, if you don’t mind me…asking? Did your parents move here, or a boyfriend or somebody?”

“Just looking for a change…” You said. It would be too much to tell him that you’d looked up to him half your life, and had worked your ass off the entire summer to get here….That you’d been willing to lose your friendships for this and that there was nothing in Seoul for you except this….It would be crazy to tell him that in the end, a boy had convinced you to be selfish and come here.

His lips curled up, oblivious to your internal worries, “A change? You’re in the right place then, sweetheart”

Sweetheart. You looked up at him, with obvious adoration in your gaze. Kim Jieong just called you sweetheart.

He reached out, to pat your back, “It can’t be easy moving, but I hope you know you made the right decision. If you’re looking for change…this is the place to be, and I’m really looking forward to know you and your art better. I can promise you that you’re going to be very happy here, Y/N”

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Maybe you needed the reassurance that coming here and uprooting your entire life wasn’t a mistake. It had felt all too much like that after Hyunjin’s disappointed encounter – making you feel that you should’ve just stayed where you were.

You’d pined for this place for so long, yet you already missed your little hometown and your life there, because things with him were better back home.

It will take time to get better. It’s only the first day.

The weight of his words sank in, and you suddenly felt teary-eyed. There’s been a void in your heart for the longest time. You thought coming here would fill it up, but even as you’re painting in your dream class with your favourite artist, your heart feels dead.

You ought to be insane to not be grateful. Seoul was the only thing you ever wanted, but maybe it’s time for you to admit that…wishes change. Dreams change.

A lump builds up in your throat at the horrible realisation that maybe, the only thing that can fill the void in your being was Hyunjin.

»»————-

Today, you were drawing from life.

There was a model in front of you, and amongst all the plants, she looked like a siren plucked from the pages of an ancient Greek legend. She was sat on a barstool, dressed in a tight lace outfit. You focused on the detailing of her lingerie as you paint it into your canvas. Surprisingly, you’d never drawn anatomy from life before, you’d never ventured into that skill much.

Her set was made entirely of lace — thin flowers covering the chest, overlapping with vines and the model blends into the room's atmosphere. She looked beautiful in muted pastel colours, and you wish you could own a piece like that. You’ve found some time to revamp your wardrobe, and when you wear prettier clothes, you feel like you’re reinventing yourself.

Daejon was usually always humid, so you never experimented with patterns, layers, and textures. It was the same skirts, the same tank tops, and sweatpants that you circulated through, and it was okay because your life was the same there everyday. Here…you’re trying to be different.

Nate brought you out of your train of thought. He was poking a pencil in your leg, to get your attention, and you looked up at him. He was grinning, hair swept back. He’s handsome, in a conventional sense anyway, but you don’t let yourself think further than that. There’s no point.

You glanced at his canvas and he’s halfway through his portrait already. Somehow, he’s made the model look even more ethereal in person.

“Could I borrow the green swatch?” He asked, eyeing the watercolours you have in front of you. You’ve bought a lot of new art supplies, and it was quite frankly, a humbling experience. Everything is so much more expensive here, but the apprenticeship gives you some money for supplies, and you’re already halfway through it. The watercolour palette though, is your favourite. It’s Winsor & Netwon. In fact, it’s the same one you used the night of the Paint and Wine event at the Chateau.

“Of course” You told Nate, and handed him the palette. He dipped his brush right into it, taking away some green paint. Everybody around you was quiet, in a deep concentration as they worked on their pieces. Kim Jieong was circulating the classroom, hands on his hips as he observed every student. He stopped every few minutes, to help out, or give advice.

It’s been some time, but you still felt starstruck around him. Some charms never fade.

You’ve had little time to observe yet but it was obvious from day one - He’s insanely cool, and he teaches art in a way that makes you so grateful to be his student. He sees the world differently than you, and you’re in desperate need for that perspective. You’re tired of only seeing things your way.

So, you obviously immediately stop painting as he soon as he comes near you. You’re embarrassed as his eyes catch progress of your painting. You’re far behind the others.

“How’s that going?” He asked, in a hushed whisper to not divert attention off the class.

You dipped your paintbrush in water, letting it soak through, “I think…it’s okay”

Jieong frowned, just slightly, looking over your canvas. He had a pair of glasses pushed over his head and he slipped them back on, leaning in to look at your strokes. You’re self-conscious, rightfully, and you held your breath as he analyses the painting.

“Your strokes are very…careful” He looked back at you, “Like you’re afraid of making a mark on the paper”

You gulped, “I…sorry”

His eyebrows shot up, and he removed the glasses, keeping them on your desk. “Mind if I sit next to you, Y/N?”

You nodded, and you’re ready to hear the end of it. He pulled up an abandoned stool, scooting close to you. You pulled your hands into your lap, and faced him.

He gets right to it, “All the work that I’ve seen of yours in the portfolio you submitted. You were usually more confident. Is something bothering you these days?”

So much is bothering you, yet none of it is an excuse.

You haven’t come this far, just to slack off. You haven’t paid so much just to be average. You haven’t dreamt so long just to be careful. You’re holding back.

“No…nothing’s bothering me” You lied, manifesting that it will soon be the truth.

Jieong frowned at your blatant lie, because he’s obviously older and wiser and therefore he knows everything. “You’ve been getting enough sleep now?”

There’s no point in hiding the truth. It’s more embarrassing to be caught in a lie, “Actually, not really…my place is still new to me. I’m still getting used to the bed, my room…the traffic. Where I’m from, it’s always quieter at night. I…also miss my friends”

Jieong smiled at your words, “Is that all? Because if so, then I’m not worried. You’ll settle in soon, and the loud traffic will soon fall on deaf ears”

“I know” You nod, you’re trying to be positive, “It’s just taking some time”

He nodded, and you think he’ll leave but says, “Have you visited any museums yet? Or been around the city?”

You’re conscious again, because everybody else is painting the model, yet you feel like a kid being reprimanded by their teacher.

“I haven’t had much time. I’ve tried to improve my skills at home”

“You’re in a metro city, Y/N. You should let yourself be inspired. I’m not asking you to go out and get drunk—” He laughed, “But maybe the trick is to tire yourself out so much during the day, you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow”

You forced a smile, but it’s hard when he’s looking right at you, “You’re right. I should do that”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your painting” He apologised, “You can continue”

You nodded, picking up the paintbrush but you’re shaking. He’s still sitting beside you, and his observant gaze terrifies you. You feel like you’re ten years old again, trying to be perfect in art class.

His hand landed on your shoulder, “Don’t be nervous”

The fact that he’s caught on to you being nervous is embarrassing, and you decide to say, “It’s hard not to be. I’ve looked up to your art my whole life”

He smiled, in your peripheral vision, “Is that so?” He looked proud, the smile reaches his eyes, and you nodded to confirm.

You and him haven’t had too many personal conversations yet. He’s close to everyone else in class but you‘re still getting to know each other. So, he still has no idea what he means to you. He had kind eyes, and the way he carries himself makes him seem much younger than he is. He’s trying to put you at ease, and you feel slightly grateful. He didn’t need to do this, or come here.

“I went to your exhibition in Jeju” You told him.

His eyes lit up, “Is that how you heard about this program? I remember my team was handing out flyers for this program there”

“Yup, I went with my best friend. Well, I sort of dragged him there, but I’m glad I did because I saw the flyers. I never thought I’d actually get in here though”

“Yet here you are” He hummed, “At the fear of not sounding narcissistic, can I ask you what your favourite piece was?”

You smiled, “You’re one of the greatest living artists. I think you’re allowed to be a little narcissistic”

At your words, he laughed. It’s so loud that it catches the attention of the students next to you. Though they’re used to his magnanimous personality, they turn away soon enough.

“You’re too sweet” He told you.

“My favourite piece…” You trailed off, and you’re replaying the exhibition in your head. You had dragged Felix around every hallway, and he’d complained throughout. Your thoughts are overtaken by something else though. At the pool all those weeks away… you’d talked about this in detail with Hyunjin, the night you told him about your rejection. The night you sat with your feet dipped in the water, the night he touched you and told you how he’d tangibly changed you. He couldn’t have known in that moment, how right he was. You can feel the ghost of his touch on your fingers, on your lips, your thighs.

Jieong must have noticed the fall in your expression because he tilt his head, “Everything all right?”

“I’m sorry. I was…just trying to remember” You can’t let thoughts of Hyunjin paralyse you.

“That’s okay” He said, simply.

“My favourite was Celestial Fatality” You said, “How…did you even come up with it?” You’d theorised this with Hyunjin…but now you could actually get some answers.

Jieong seemed surprised, “That’s a pretty morbid painting to love, Y/N”

“It’s beautiful though. It reminds me of the legend of Icarus”

“What do you like about it?” He leaned forward, and your heart jumped. He actually cares, and wants to know your opinion. The thought of it is crazy and makes you a little dizzy.

“It’s a cautionary tale…the pair of lovers drowning in moonlight, swallowed up in their own…hubris. They were probably told to stay away from each other, yet at the risk of their mortality, they still met”

Jieong seemed almost impressed, “You seem like a romantic person”

It’s a strange thing for him to say to you, in the middle of a Wednesday class. But he’s your favourite artist, and he’s absolutely right. For a romantic person, you’ve surely never had any good relationships to account for it though.

You shook your head, “I’m really not. I just like that painting. Something about it feels close to home. It’s almost like I can feel the pain of their mistake…of choosing each other over anything else in the world, even if that ends in their perishing…”

His lip curled up into a smile, “Fascinating”

Your chest felt heavy, but it feels so good to talk about this with him, “I hope one day I can create something with as much impact as that. I want to tell stories that linger, I think there’s a long time till that though…I mean I’m struggling with basic anatomy,. I guess I just need to get better….”

“I’ve only known you a few weeks, Y/N, but can I tell you something?”

“Hmm?”

He reached out, smiling warmly, “You’re way too hard on yourself. You’re in one of the greatest cities in the world. Live a little, kid”

»»————-

It had been just two weeks, but you’ve developed a habit. Every evening after class, you find yourself organising the canisters on the shelves.

“Should we be paying you for this?” Nate asked, stepping over to you. You don’t talk much in class, and when you do, it’s always in passing, like this. Right now, he had a bag slung over his shoulder, while he bit into an apple, the juice dripping down his chin. You wish you had more energy to put into your friendships right now but making new connections has felt so draining. You’d been too dependent on Yeonjun, but he can’t always be there.

He looked silly, eating fruit here, but you laughed, “I hope you’re joking”

“No, because why are you putting all of them in that order?” He asked, another crunch reverberated through the studio as he bit into it again.

“I actually worked in an art shop my whole life. Old habits…” You shrugged, looking at him.

“You’re kidding me” Minnie said, stepping up, “That explains it”

“Explains what?” You turned to them.

“Your desk is always so…strangely clean” She said. You don’t know her well too, but you love how she dresses. You love how she pours herself into her clothes, and expresses through them. She’s always wearing chunky jewellery, flowing skirts, corsets. Her art style is similar to it. It’s loud but dainty at the same time.

“I’m gonna presume that’s a compliment” You laughed, picking up your sketchbook. “Can we get going, Nate, please?” Minnie asked him.

“See you Monday” You smiled at them, turning to finish packing your things.

Nate looked at you over his shoulder, “Actually… You got any plans after class?”

You looked between them, “Not really, I was planning on brushing up on my anatomy. Why?”

Nate rolled his eyes, and he almost reminds you of Minho in this moment, “Even though that sounds like the bestFriday night ever…We’re going to this new bar that opened up. You wanna come with?”

Minnie jumped forward, eyes lighting up, “Shit, yeah! I think you might really like it. The whole place is themed like a post-apocalyptic nuclear bunker. Very cool”

“What?” You laughed, walking over to them with your bag, “That sounds really unique, but I don’t really want to intrude on your plan”

Nate stepped forward, offering his hand to you, “Your anatomy can wait till Monday morning. You’ve been in Seoul a few weeks, don’t you want to explore the cool shit already?”

“Are you sure?”

“We have an extra ticket anyway” Minnie suggested. They’ve never asked you to hang out with them before like this. You wonder what it was about today that made them try.

You stared at his hand, outstretched to you. No inspiration was going to strike from you just sitting in your studio apartment every night. They were right, and you slipped your fingers in his. He smiled brightly…and that just happened to be the night you made your first friends in the city.

And…Nate had a lot of friends.

You realised as much when you’re sitting at the booth, squished between Minnie and him, staring at a bunch of young adults you don’t know.

They’re fun, and they’re on their fifth tequila shot of the night. In another life, this might have been your teenage years too. Attending Seoul University, having friends from affluent neighbourhoods, weekend nights out at the bar. Alas, everyone at this table is worth more than the average person’s income in Daejon, and the only cheap bar in your small town was run by an old creep.

Minnie handed you another tequila shot, her hand resting on your thigh. She’s very handsy and you don’t mind.

There’s been a few rounds of getting to know each other. You’re the new one, so you kind of feel like the baby of the group, even though they’re all older than you. Most of them came from America, but their Korean is so good you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Nate has attractive friends. Ha-ru, Renjun, Lily, Jamie. But none of them hold a candle to the boy you’re desperately trying not to think about.

You came straight to this bar after class, so you had no time to change out of your paint-tattered clothes. Thankfully, you’re wearing the leather jacket Yeonjun bought you, and it does a great job of keeping you warm. Admittedly, his friends aren’t too dressed up either. They all came from work too, and you once again realise that life here is so different from Daejon. There’s no time for frolicking, or lounging around in diners and swimming in Creeks. Everybody’s working their ass off, to afford the lifestyle that Seoul asks for, the lifestyle you always killed for.

“So, what brought you to this city, Y/N?” One of his friends asked you. It’s the only question you get asked these days. The most interesting thing about you is your newness, but they’re outgoing, so you’re not surprised at them making all these attempts to get to know you.

“Where do I start?” You joked, reaching for your drink, “I moved here from a little town near the mountains”

Your glass was tinted red, to match the theming of the bar. It’s a fancy place, and all the decor makes you feel like you’re underground. Even the bouncers are dressed up in what look like radioactive suits, for the whole nuclear bunker vibe.

Everything around you is neon. The tables, the lights, the dance floor. Each one of Nate’s friends has a neon necklace around their neck, and glow sticks as bracelets. You’ve seen those accessories in the movies, but you’ve never been to a party with them. Minnie made you a purple and blue glow-stick bracelet, and slipped it on your wrist a while ago. You’re fiddling with it as you talk to their friends.

“Ah, a small town girl” One of his friends, Renjun, laughed, but you’re not offended. It’s true, after all.

“Why would you willingly choose the life path of a struggling artist?” Jamie asked. She’s cute. Her hair is dyed bright red, so you already like her.

You laughed, “A silly dream”

“What’s your dream?” Nate asked, squeezing your shoulder. You realised his arm is around you, and has been for a while. He smells nice, and so you let it linger. Even now, his huge headphones hang off his neck. He never goes anywhere without them, and you’re proud of yourself for picking up little habits and quirks in such less time already.

Everybody has different reasons to be an artist, so you tell them yours, “I don’t know…I’ve been painting since I was a kid, but I think I’m ready to finally share my art with the world? That’s assuming other people would want to see it, but I guess I want to reach a point in my life where I’m proud of what I created, and hopefully I can inspire others. Also…because if I don’t become an artist, I have no idea what the hell I’ll do. It feels like the only thing I really enjoy doing”

It’s far too intense, and serious an answer for this bar, but Nate’s friends listened kindly. They smiled as you talked. It felt a little lame, sure. It also feels unachievable, but Minnie grinned, and pat your thigh, “I mean….wow, you’re halfway there! You made it to Jieong’s studio”

She’s right. You’ve been sad and moping this whole time, and you decide that tonight needs to be the night you want things to change. After what Jieong told you earlier today, you deserve a little fun, enough fun for the sirens and the traffic to become your lullaby as you fall asleep.

“But why Seoul? You have enough talent to make it to Paris” Jamie asked. She has piercings too, and you get distracted by how well they complimented her.

“I’d have to live on the streets” You bite your cheek. Maybe they can’t relate because they’re so much more well-off, but Nate laughed, and said, “Isn’t that an artist’s rite of passage?”

You smiled, and downed the last of your drink.

“Well, since you’re one of us now. Here’s your honorary tiara!” Jamie said, handing you a neon golden tiara across the table. You grabbed it, placing it atop your head and Minnie clicked a picture of you, joking about you being a princess from humble beginnings. Her words slur a bit, and you’ve been here more than an hour, so it explains why everybody’s already tipsy.

The dance floor was absolutely full, and there’s couples grinding on each other. There are so many pretty girls, and attractive guys surrounding them. Girls in tight dresses with no care in the world, and boys trying to flirt to catch their attention. There’s probably someone falling in love right this second, in this very bar, and you’re people-watching for a while. Everybody’s neon accessories are glowing in the blacklights, and it’s a beautiful scene, straight out of a movie.

When you tune back into the conversation, Jamie’s telling the group about some jerk at her workplace today, and you try to follow her story, except you’ve already lost the context. It’s probably the lack of sleep and all the alcohol in your veins.

You don’t have to try for long though since Renjun interrupted it, “Shit, is that Baekhyun?”

The name is familiar, and you all craned your heads to see who he’s pointing out.

There’s a well-dressed man at the far end of the bar, and he’s indulging in tequila shots, with two girls by his side. He’s beautiful, and he has silver hair.

“Who he is?” You asked, but you already know. Hyunjin has mentioned a Baekhyun before…and you’ve grown up hearing about him on television too, but this can’t possibly be him.

“A singer” Jamie said.

“Oh. He’s…the Baekhyun?” You dropped your voice. It felt weird talking about him when he’s right there, “Isn’t he like… a superstar?”

Nate nodded, “He’s one of the top, yeah. Even my mum’s obsessed with him. Why are you so surprised? Never seen an idol in the wild?”

If only he knew…

You craned your neck to see Baekhyun making out with the girl at the bar, tongue and all. “I didn’t know they can be so open…” You frowned, unable to comprehend the scene before you.

“Why wouldn’t they? He’s like twenty five. I know you’re not from the city but you’re not that old fashioned, are you?” Nate laughed.

You shook your head, but the little movement hurts you because you’re tipsy too, “No, it’s not that. I just thought…aren’t they prohibited from all of that? The drinking and everything…in public”

Minnie laughed, “Come on, you don’t seriously believe that Y/N”

It wasn’t just your belief. It’s what Hyunjin had told you, time and time again. His reputation was more important than anything, and his company would never let it be tarnished. Indulging in things like this…would definitely alter public perception of him.

“Well…they’re like super controlled by their companies” You told them. This was one thing you knew more than them. You’d heard first-hand accounts of it.

“Yeah, but none of them follow those rules” Nate laughed, and he’s drawing circles on your shoulder as he speaks, “Every single idol I know is like a sex freak”

“To put it kindly: they fuck like bunnies” Jamie clarified, “All that pent up frustration. Plus they’re all hot, and spend all their time together. It’s only natural”

“But…they’re not allowed to date publicly” You spoke, yet it came out more as a question.

Nate shrugged, “Still. They’re a bunch of horny twenty year olds, Y/N. You can’t be that naive”

“I’m not” You defended, “I just thought…Someone told me that… it’s really looked down upon, that they could get kicked out of the company”

Renjun leaned forward, jutting his head towards Baekhyun, “Does that look like the face of a man worried about being fired?”

Surely not. He was now making out with the other girl on his arm, while the previous one kissed his neck, at the bar for everyone to see. You’re sure people were taking pictures of them too, whoever wasn’t drunk enough to comprehend this.

“My friend’s worked with a couple of them. They’ve literally all fucked each other. And honestly, if I led a lifestyle as stressful as that? I would too” Renjun laughed.

“Most of them are dating too” Jamie said.

It felt like a dark cloud washed over you. Were you wrong about everything you assumed about Hyunjin’s life?

“Who told you that anyway, Y/N?” Minnie asked.

“Just some guy who works at Pegasus” You mumbled, twirling your glass on the table. Pegasus was the label Hyunjin’s group is under, but there’s enough artists in that company to not arouse any suspicion.

“Why are you so curious about this anyway? You’re in the mood to fuck a famous guy?” Nate asked.

You shook your head, “No, it’s just interesting to think about…”

If you could still talk to Hyunjin, you’d call him right now and ask him all about this, and why nobody seemed to care that Baekhyun was feeling up two girls in this very public place. It was like looking into an alternate reality, where nobody cared about what they were up to. A better reality than yours surely, yet you couldn’t process it. You hadn’t been interested in idols before Hyunjin, and after Hyunjin, all you’d known was their endless restrictions.

Minnie finished the tequila in your glass, “I could never be famous. I’d get cancelled on day one”

You smiled at her joke, but your mood had already dampened. Nate was right. You were naïve to think that none of them broke the rules, just because Hyunjin didn’t want to. You stared at the condensation ring your glass left.

Minnie nudged you in your stomach, as if noticing the lull in your emotions, “Wanna get another drink with me at the bar?”

You desperately wanted a drink, so you could finally let go and enjoy the rest of tonight, “Aren’t we going to be hungover for class tomorrow?”

She rolled her eyes, “Class isn’t till eleven. We’ll be fine. Plus, Jieong knows we drink every Wednesday”

So you followed her to the bar. Baekhyun wasn’t there anymore, and he must have left with the girls. “This place is really cool” You told her, hiking up on a bar stool as she ordered you two Tequila Sunrises.

“Isn’t it? We try to go out every week, it keeps us sane. I mean, there’s so many places to explore too, you know what I mean?”

You nodded, even though you’re all about routine and less about spontaneity, “I get it”

Your drinks arrived, decorated with two cherries on top, and a slice of orange.

“So, you have a boyfriend yet?” She asked you, chewing on her straw. You knew the question was coming, so you’re not surprised and you don’t flinch.

“No” You shook your head, “I haven’t had one for a while”

She hummed, “Why? It’d be fun to get one, while you’re here”

You laughed, sipping on your drink, “Get one? You say that as if I can just go shopping for a new boyfriend”

The drink was citrusy — a blend of tequila and orange juice. Yet your favourite drink is still the one Hyunjin made you, complete with the flower from his home garden.

She rolled her eyes, “No, I mean, you’re pretty. Look around us and just pick a cute boy. Boys in Seoul are so desperate they’ll be very easy to get”

You laughed, “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I am!” She seemed offended, “Then we could even go on double dates”

“You have a boyfriend?”

She smiled, “A girlfriend. But we’re on the down low”

You’re surprised, “Really? What’s her name?”

She laughed, pointing at your booth, “You met her. It’s Jamie. She’s at the table”

Your eyes widened, “Shit. You’re dating Jamie?”

“I know, we don’t seem like a couple, right?”

They hadn’t been all over each other so you hadn’t presumed they were together, but perhaps their love was stable, so they didn’t need to be. You took a long sip of your drink, “No, I just…I just didn’t know”

She shrugged, “We don’t really tell anyone. Not everybody gets it”

“Thank you for telling me. I know we haven’t talked much in class, and you don’t even know me that well, but—”

She interrupted you, keeping her hand on your thigh, “Stop, Y/N. I’ve seen your art, and honestly that speaks to me so much more than knowing someone for years. It’s like reading a personal diary, don’t you think? Art reveals so much of who we are”

You smiled, her words stroking a growing flame in your heart, “What does it reveal about me?”

She chewed on her straw further, smile tugging at her lips, “All I need to know. And since we’re all in Jieong’s class now, I hope you know we’ll basically be family by the end of the year”

“You’re really sweet…I was kind of nervous joining in the middle of a semester, but I’m so glad I’m here. Thank you for taking me out tonight too”

“Of course. You’re the newest addition to the group, we had to”

It feels so sudden, and fast, but you’re thankful they consider you a part.

“So” She leaned forward, “Pick a boy to kiss tonight”

You shook your head, laughing, “No, I can’t” You’re tipsy, but you’re not that drunk, and the idea of kissing someone who’s not him, hurts you far too much. You also can’t imagine enjoying it.

“Why?” She pouted.

You wonder what’s the best way to say it. You forced a smile, “I’m…in love with somebody else”

Minnie’s eyes widened, as if you’d been keeping a secret from her for years, “What? Who?”

You played with the orange slice in your drink, “Just a boy from my town”

“Can I ask what happened?”

You swallowed, gaze wavering from hers, “Uh…it’s complicated, Minnie”

“Did he break your heart?”

You looked up at her, “We…lost touch”

It sounds stupid to say in the 21st century. Those kind of things don’t happen anymore. It’s not like you are ancient lovers who separated due to circumstances. Yet it feels more like that every day. You wish you just knew what happened. There must be a reasonable explanation for why he acted this way.

Minnie frowned, “I see…”

You know she’s curious, but nobody could ever understand the complexity of what happened between you and him this summer anyway. You don’t think you understand it yourself.

“Let’s just not talk about him” You mumbled, finishing the rest of your drink. You’d been drinking so fast tonight, you didn’t realise how much you’d had.

“Hey…” A voice interrupts you, and you turned to see Jamie, “I was looking everywhere for you”

Minnie rolled her eyes, “The only place you should look is the bar”

“You’re right” Jamie slung an arm around her, pulling her close, “Can we go dance, baby?”

Minnie grinned, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, “Y/N, do you wanna come with?”

You looked between them, and they look so cute together. Jamie was leaving little pecks on Minnie’s shoulder as they talked. They complement each other so well — Minnie with her light hair, and Jamie with her fiery red. You haven’t known Jamie before tonight, but their personalities seem so contrasting too.

You jumped off the barstool, “I’m actually gonna go to the bathroom, okay?”

“Cool. We’ll be here” She smiled, walking off to the dance floor with her girlfriend.

There’s a line at the bathroom so you stand in it, hugging yourself. The music isn’t as loud here, so it’s nice to get some time to your thoughts. A couple is making out in front of you, and the guy is grabbing her ass, pushing her to the wall. The club walls aren’t the most sanitary for this, but the music playing is sexy, and the atmosphere is so hot. There’s nothing wrong with daydreaming…so you let yourself drift into it. If he were here…you don’t think that would have stopped you either. In a dress that’s too short for you, the two of you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off each other the whole night.

Except… he would have definitely stopped you. You can never imagine a day where he’d kiss you in the middle of a crowded bar.

Once you’re finally in, you splashed some water on your face. Some of it gets on your top. Pushing your hair back, you stared at yourself in the mirror. The image looking back at you is blurry, and out of focus. Pink neon strips surround the mirror, but the light hurts your eyes. The alcohol has got to your head, and your reflection is already spinning. You take in a breath, gripping the counter tightly. You suddenly feel sick. It’s not the drinks. It’s the image burned into your head of Baekhyun at the bar. How is he living his life with so much ease, when all you had with Hyunjin are stolen moments? You’re happy that perhaps the rules aren’t the same for everyone…but it feels unfair.

You wonder if you’re destined to always feel this way, this loss, like a hole in your heart where he belonged. Tears threatened to spill but you hold them back. You can’t be the girl crying in the bathroom, on her first night out. That would be so fucking pathetic, you’d pity yourself.

“Fucking asshole!” A voice interrupted your breakdown, and through the neon mirror, your eyes fall on a girl as she runs into the bathroom, aggression plastered on her features. She’s in a tight top, and it’s soaking wet. It looks like someone spilled a drink on it. She looked rightfully annoyed, coming to stand next to you at the sink. You wonder who she got into a fight with, or how the drink ended up on her clothes.

She’s furiously wiping away at her top, but it’s completely wet, purple liquid seeped in. Tearing off tissues one after the other, she seemed frustrated when the dispenser is out.

You’re still zoned out, and you don’t realise you’re holding out a toilet paper roll to her. Your limbs seemed to move on their own accord.

She glanced up at your reflection, with wide eyes. Bangs fall to the front of her eyes, and thick eyeliner darkened her gaze. A nose piercing catches the neon light. Despite the mess on her shirt, she easily looks like the coolestgirl you’ve ever seen.

“Thank you” She frowned, but her shoulders visibly relaxed at your gesture. She grabbed the paper roll from you, and you turned to leave.

“Some dude threw a drunk at me when I said I didn’t wanna dance with him” She said. It takes you a second to register that she’s talking to you.

So you turned around, crossing your arms to hold yourself, “Oh…ouch. Some people just can’t take a no, I guess”

She laughed, looking at herself in the mirror, “Right? I looked in his direction for a second, and he took that as an invitation”

Her clothes …are completely ruined, and you can see her bra. It’s way past the point of saving. It would have been a cute outfit, if it wasn’t for the huge stain at the front.

“Who was he? Maybe I can get my friends to talk with him” You told her, and you don’t know why you’re offering up Nate and Minnie to fight a random stranger, just for this girl.

Still, she laughed, “Your friend would beat up a stranger for me?”

You smiled, and said without hesitation, “If I ask him nicely enough. Actually… I think me and him just became friends today, so I can’t promise you”

She laughed, “A night of firsts for you too then”

“For me too?” You questioned, and you’re still looking at her through the bathroom mirror.

“It’s my first night out on the city after a long time. I honestly just needed to get out. I thought I’d go insane in my apartment” She told you, and then looked down, “What am I gonna do with this?”

You don’t think, “You can have my jacket”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she whipped around to look at you. You realise up close, she’s even prettier than in her reflection, if that’s possible.

“You’re serious?” She tilt her head, and looked over you, gaze drifting to the leather jacket that clings to your body, “That looks new”

“You can return it to me” You offered.

“You trust me enough to do that?” She smiled, and dimples appear in her cheeks.

“You… seem nice enough”

She looked at your jacket yet again, thinking it over in head, “No, I couldn’t. Won’t you be cold?”

“I’ll be fine, and you definitely can’t wear that” You said, pointing to her blouse that sticks to her body.

She sighed, looking down at herself, and then gives in. You wonder why you’re convincing her to take your jacket. Maybe because she’s the only thing that stopped you from having an actual breakdown in the bar bathroom. She peeled off her blouse, cursing again at how it sticks to her body as she did so, and it leaves her in just her bra. She squeezed the blouse over the sink, wringing it, and purple liquid dripped out.

“That’s gross” You remarked, and she laughed. You handed your jacket to her. Inside, you’re thankfully wearing a tank top so you’ll be fine. She zipped it up, and it’s a little tight on her, but it does the job. It obviously doesn’t match with the denim skirt she’s wearing, but still you smiled, “Cute outfit”

“I look insane” She laughed.

“Well, hey, at least that’ll keep the creepy guy off you” You told her. You then realise you’ve been here far too long, “Um, I should probably head out. My friends would be worried”

She giggled loudly, turning to you, “Wait, but thank you. You’re…really nice. It’s not often you meet people with the likes of you here”

“I’m not from here but…I’m sure anybody else would have done the same thing” You suggested, standing at the door to leave.

“Well, I asked like six girls for help but all of them said no” She mumbled.

Your heart clenched. Perhaps it’s true that people in the city really are so consumed in their own lives. Maybe that’s why everyone in your town hated them.

“Where are you from then?” She asked you.

“You won’t really know it”

Her eyebrows shoot up, as if you challenged her, “Come on, try me. I was a pro in geography in high school!”

“It’s a town called Daejon”

Her eyes widened, “Daejon? Yeah, I do know where that is!”

“Oh” You smiled, and you don’t know why you’re telling everybody about yourself tonight, but it feels nice.

“I actually knew somebody from there” She said, and that’s what really catches your attention.

“You do?”

“Yeah” She smiled, but says nothing more.

Someone suddenly tugs at your sleeve. It’s Minnie, and she hooked her arm around yours, pulling you out, “You’ve been in here for like, an hour. We’re going to another bar. Nate and the others are waiting for us”

You glanced back at the girl, and said, “Sorry! I, um, gotta go”

You’ve made it all of two steps out of the bathroom and back into the bar, before she tapped on your shoulder. She yelled to be heard over the music, it’s so much louder out here, “Wait! How should I get this jacket back to you?”

You’re clearly drunker than you thought since you just handed her your shit and were walking away without any plan of how to get it back, “Um yeah, I can give you my number. I’m Y/N, by the way”

“Y/N” She repeated, pulling her phone out to save your number, “My saviour”

You enter hers, and you’re in a hurry because Minnie is pulling at your sleeve, whining about how the others will be annoyed, “What should I save yours as?”

“You can just put in Kairi!”

“Sorry?” You looked up at her, freezing. The pounding music overtakes your senses. You must have misheard her…

“Kairi. My name!” She smiled, and you’re staring at her stupidly for a second just as Minnie tugs at your arm, and before you can ask her any further questions, she dragged you back into the bar.

»»————-

At 6:46 a.m., there was a text on your phone.

heyy its the drunk girl you gave your jacket to last night :) im very grateful for it and would like to give it back. where do you work, yn?

You’re surprised she remembered your name.

Last night flooded through your brain. You’d gone out drinking with your friends, and then to another bar, and you’d come home without your jacket… dead in the night. Jeongin had seen you struggling with your keys, and he’d let you in. You’d been so fucking drunk, but nothing can erase the memory of that girl.

She said her name was Kairi. Chan’s ex-girlfriend was a girl named Kairi. The girl he was in love with for years, the girl he was going to ask to marry, before something happened…and they broke up. That had also been around the time Hyunjin had stopped talking to you…

How many Kairis could possibly live here? It’s probably just…a random Kairi, and not the one Hyunjin had told you all about. Although knowing your luck, Chan’s ex-girlfriend was possibly texting you, and this was all kind of insane. You can’t even go a single day without being reminded of Hyunjin, and it feels like life is playing a cruel trick on you by introducing you to Kairi. It’s too big a coincidence. It’s so crazy and convoluted that you should just block the number and never think about this again. She had no idea who you are, and it feels like you’re tricking her by knowing her identity.

But Yeonjun gave you that jacket so you can’t just let it go, and so you text her back. Just so you can get it back. Nothing more to it.

hey, im actually a student but i can come to where you work, and pick it up

a student? that explains why you’re so sweet and i work near the outskirts, it’ll be too far for you. why don’t we meet up at the paris baguette near hannam? is that all right for you for tonight?

i actually have class at eleven

ah how about now then?

You sat up immediately. You’re still in your pyjamas and hungover as fuck. Now?

»»————-

Kairi was standing outside the Paris Baguette when you arrive, tote bag slung over her shoulder. She looked absolutely stunning in the morning, miles more so than the club bathroom, and your heart shakes a little. Sober, she’s prettier, and even more confident.

“Hey” You walked up to her, trying not to think about how weird this all was. You’re just here for the jacket, and then you’re going to leave, “Morning”

“Hey, stranger” She smiled bright, dimples returning.

“I’m sorry if I was late” You apologised.

“No, don’t mind me, I just like to show up way too early. Here’s your jacket!” She reached into her bag, handing it to you, “I had it dry-cleaned in the morning. Didn’t wanna return it with the alcohol smell over it”

“Oh. Thank you” You smiled, “You didn’t need to do that”

“Of course I did. I’m buying you breakfast, by the way”

“You’re what?”

“In fact, I got here early to beat the rush. Got you some pain au chocolat before it sells out!”

Fuck. No wonder Chan was in love with her.

This feels far too weird though, and you can’t be hanging out with her, “I should…get going, Kairi”

“You remember my name, Y/N” She grinned, unfazed by you constantly wanting to just get the fuck out of here.

“Of course…you, uh remembered mine, but I should really go”

“Well, I’m not letting you go that easily. I already bought us food”

You watched, helpless, as she reached into her bag to bring out a little box, “Do you want to walk with me? There’s a place in the park we could grab coffee from”

You really shouldn’t. Every bit of you is screaming at you at how you shouldn’t do this. But she looks far too happy for this early in the morning, and you don’t want to be to the ruin her entire day so you gave in, “I…can’t ever say no to coffee”

Kairi grinned, triumphant as she led you to the park, and when you bite into the chocolate croissant that she bought you, this doesn’t feel like such a big mistake.

You’re walking, and her elbow brushed against yours as she asked you, “You said you’re a student”

“Mmh” You nodded, through a mouthful of croissant. The chocolate sticks to your lips and you wipe it off, conscious of how you look around her.

“So, tell me more, Y/N. What are you a student of?”

You’re feeling the nerves in your tummy, and you need to act normal because this is just a girl. It doesn’t matter if Chan is her ex-boyfriend, or if she’s friends with Hyunjin. You can’t make it weirder than it already is. “I study art” You told her, “At the Atelier”

“Art?” Her eyes lit up, “I swear I always attract the creative people”

“Yeah?” You glanced at her, swallowing another bite of the croissant.

She shook her head, as if to dismiss the thought, “Mmh. So what kind of art do you learn?”

It’s a chilly morning in the park, but it’s beautiful. People are walking their dogs, and old couples are sitting on benches, and you’re with a kind stranger who was buying you coffee.

“All kinds, but mostly painting” You told her, leaning against a little fence as you two come to a stop. There’s a little stall set up in the popular trail of the park, and a sweet woman is selling coffee and cakes. Kairi paid for your drinks, and you watched her from where you stand.

“I have a friend who likes to paint” She told you, smiling as she walked back over to you, “Personally, it’s not for me”

“What do you do?”

“Be careful, it’s hot” Kairi warned, handing the steaming cup of mocha to you. You wrapped your hands around it, and lift it to your cheek, letting the warmth travel to your face.

She giggled, “Who needs heat packs when we have caffeine?”

You nodded, taking a sip of it as you looked at her. She can’t seem to stay still, and she’s walking across a circle of pebbles, as she chats away and sips at her coffee. She’s so endearing, and she reminds you of a mix of Felix and Minho. Today, her hair is pulled up into a bun, strands falling around her face. Her makeup is lighter than it was yesterday too, but she’s prettier in the daylight.

“Oh and…I work in corporate. It’s…a boring job, but I think I’ve had enough of an exciting life” She hummed. You let yourself get comfortable, crossing your ankles across the dirt, enjoying the warm coffee, as she told you about her job, and the kind of clients she’s had. You tell her about your apartment, and about how you’d be locked out so frequently, if it weren’t for Jeongin. You tell her about Yeonjun too.

You’re trying really hard to not bring up anything that can give you away. You’re so curious, you need to know if this is the same Kairi that you’ve heard of this whole while. Kairi is a common enough name, even if you asked, what would you say? The boy I love is in a band with your ex-boyfriend. It’s insane to bring up, so you settle for something simpler, “Um…can I ask why you’re buying me coffee on a Friday morning?”

She looked up at you, smiling, “Would you judge me if I said I’m going through a really shitty time? I kind of want to remind myself that there’s still good stuff in the world”

“Oh. I’m sorry” You apologised, staring at your feet. That was inappropriate to ask.

“Don’t be sorry. We all have our own baggage to deal with”

“Yeah. I get you” You said, taking another sip of the mocha, “Um, so don’t you have work today?”

“No” She laughed, “I’m taking a mental health day, as cringe as that may sound”

Your chest squeezed. It sucked to see her go through this, whatever it was, and you barely know her. “We all need that sometimes” You shot her a smile, “It’s not…cringe at all. Don’t worry. In fact, the world would be a better place if everyone took a mental health day once in a while”

She stepped up to you, eyes lost in thought, “You know…you remind me of someone”

“I do?”

“Mmh” She nodded, “My boyfriend, he—Sorry, ex-boyfriend, he was just like you”

Now you’re definitely crossing a line, but you’re self-destructive so you ask anyway, “Can I…ask what happened?”

She tilt her head, pausing between sipping her mocha, “It’s not really morning coffee worth news. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details but we’re…taking a break…indefinitely”

You swallowed, “I’m sorry to hear that”

She shrugged, wiping some foam off her lips, “Don’t be. I know that…things are going to be okay”

You can’t resist asking, “How can you be so sure?”

“Well. He’s the only person I think of, when I’m sad…and also when I’m fucking happy. I know that he feels the same, and if two people can’t stay away from each other, it just means…they aren’t supposed to be apart” She laughed.

Your stomach clenches at that. You should believe that, except it’s impossible.

“I wish that I could be as positive as you are” You end up saying.

“You said you’re from Daejon, right?” It comes out of nowhere. Why is she bringing it up now?

You felt a rush in your chest at her question, “Yeah. I am.”

She pokes her tongue in her cheek, and you don’t know where she’s headed with this, “One of my friends was born there”

“Oh…” You try hard not to react, but you’re so easy to read, you give everything away. Anybody would be able to see you’re hurting.

“He’s a painter too. Well…not professionally, but…he wishes he was. He’s so talented. in another life, I’m sure he’s much more successful than even Da Vinci”

You know exactly who she’s talking about, and you can’t hear this. You’ll end up crying or something, so you finally do the right thing and say, “Um. I think I should leave, Kairi”

Her eyes widened, and she seemed confused, stepping towards you, “What? Did I say something wrong?”

You’re pressed up to the fence, facing her, “No. I’m just going to be late for class if I stay and—”

“I said something wrong” She interrupted you, face hardened.

You look at your feet, and you shouldn’t have come here with her. You’re far too sensitive for this, “No, you didn’t”

“Wait…You know who I’m talking about, right?” She continued, and you wish she’d stop.

“I don’t” You said, and your jaw is clenched from the lie.

Kairi’s gaze is unrecognisable, and her voice feels far away, “You’re…the Y/N…aren’t you?”

You’re squeezing the cup in your hand, “What?”

“I wasn’t sure…I had a doubt but the more time I spend with you, the more obvious it gets who you are”

Your voice fell to a whisper, “You know me?”

“All he did was talk about you.”

A burning flame consumes your heart, and you can’t breathe, and you asked even though you know the answer, “Who…?”

“Hyunijn… He would be making up excuses just to keep bringing you up, in each conversation. He talked about you every second he could.”

You think you’re going to have a panic attack in the middle of the park.

“He did…?”

“Until… a few months ago he completely stopped. He…hasn’t said your name since”

You swallowed, and there’s tears in your eyes, “I’m sorry I…need to go, Kairi. Thank you…for the coffee”

She doesn’t say anything.

This time, she lets you leave.

»»————-

You’re a mess.

It’s been a few days since you saw Kairi in the park, and you’re a fucking mess. You can’t stop thinking about her, about what happened with Chan, and about Hyunjin.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, and your vision is all blurry as you try to paint. There’s an assignment due in a few hours, and you’re not even halfway done. Unproductivity has plagued you. Why do you get so fucking emotional? You wish you at least had some closure. It’s not fair that Hyunjin decided to just move on, and not tell you what was up.

Your phone buzzed, and it’s only Nate.

you coming to class? the field trip is planned for today so you better not skip it yn

You don’t even want to get out of bed, but you can’t skip it. Kim Jieong has been talking about this trip for weeks. He’s had to move a lot of schedules around to make it happen. You’re supposed to be visiting an artist friend of his— someone who owns art galleries and does frequent viewing exhibitions. The thought of meeting another real artist like that used to excite you. You had never got this chance back home, and this is just the beginning of the opportunities you get. You can’t be wasting away your time in sadness. That’s what gets you out of bed. That, and the thought of disappointing your professor potentially. These days, it feels like you’re just hanging on by a very thin thread.

When you arrive to the Atelier, everybody’s already gathered in the parking lot, ready to depart. You hate being late, but you spot your friends by the corner and you find comfort in walking over to them. Professor Jieong was in the middle of briefing everyone, and handing out access cards.

“You decided to show up” He said to you, smiling, “We were getting worried”

“I’m sorry. I ran into traffic” You apologised.

“Don’t worry” He laughed, handing you your card, “This will get you in and out of the building, but try not to use it too much. Karina would get into a shit load of trouble if my students are found wandering on the other floors”

Karina is the artist you’re supposed to meet today, apparently she’s big in the art world here in Seoul. You hope one day…you can be too.

Nate’s holding a plastic bag to his chest, and he looks cute today in a pastel sweater, “I packed some extra snacks for you, Y/N”

“You didn’t need to” Your heart warmed at his consideration.

“Come on, we’re on a tight schedule, so…let’s hurry up, okay?” Jieong announced.

“Since you’re late, you have the honor of riding with the prof” Nate smirked, jutting his head towards Kim Jieong.

“Are you serious?” Your eyes widened, “Just me alone?”

“You’ll be fine, Y/N” Minnie laughed, “He has a bias towards you”

“That’s only because I’m the new one here!”

“No, it’s because it’s impossible to not like you” Nate rolled his eyes.

Jieong approached your group, hands on his hip, “So…which one of you is coming with me?”

“She is” Minnie chirped, pushing you in his direction.

Nate hummed as he walked away, “If I remember correctly, he is your favourite artist, isn’t he?”

You’re embarrassed, and also pissed at your friends. Jieong lead you to his car in the parking lot. You watched Nate get in his jeep and he laughed at your predicament.

Jieong smiled at you as you got into his car, “Oh, don’t be shy, Y/N. This will give us a chance to know each other better, won’t it?”

You sank into his seat, flushing, “Right”

»»————-

The skyscrapers of Seoul passed you, as you drove through crowded streets and glitzy buildings, “Should I be nervous?”

He looked over at you, “Karina is one of my favourite students. She used to intern with me a few years ago. She couldn’t get off her meetings, so we’re gonna visit her at work. That’s all it is. Nothing to be nervous about”

You’re sitting in the passenger seat and it’s been mostly quiet as you fiddled with the access card in your lap, “What kind of work does she do?”

“She’s a curator. I asked her to be a sort of…mentor for you kids throughout the semester. She’s had her fair share of exhibitions”

It feels strange to ride in his car, next to him. You’re his student after all, “Do I get credit for this, Mr. Jieong?”

He glanced at you, “Of course you do. I’m not doing this on my dime, Y/N. We’re here, by the way”

At his words, you leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the building you’re arriving at. He pulled straight into the garage, and you briefly caught the glamorous exterior.

“This is where she works?” You gaped, “She must be one hell of an artist”

Jieong laughed as he pulled the car into a guest parking spot, grabbing a ticket, “Obviously the entire building doesn’t belong to her.”

You told him about Yeonjun’s workplace, as you waited in the car for all of your classmates to show up, “One of my friends…he works in a building like this, but it’s so…monotonous. I kind of hated it”

He laughed, “Well, I think you’ll love this one. It’s brimming with creativity. They have beautiful art hung in every corridor too. Karina’s workspace is on one of the upper floors”

“I’d kill to have an office like that. The view must be so good”

Jieong smiled at you, “You continue working as passionately as you do, and you will have whatever the hell you dream of, Y/N. You name it, and it’ll be yours”

He unclipped his seatbelt, and your stomach felt uneasy from anticipation as you got out of the car. Even the parking garage looks expensive, and glamorous. Way, way more than Yeonjun’s building.

“Am I underdressed? Will they let me in?” You blurted, even though it’s hardly appropriate to ask him that. You’re in a peach tube top and wish you’d grabbed a blazer or something. If the place has a dress code…you probably won’t be let in. Thankfully, the skirt falls to your ankles and isn’t too short. He looked back at you, eyes raking over your outfit, and you felt embarrassed. You shouldn’t have asked him.

His lips curled up into a smile, “You look fine, Y/N. Don’t worry”

Fine. That would have to do.

You waited near the elevators, as your classmates also made their way to you. Nate was smirking as he saw you with your professor. You rolled your eyes at him, and he stood next to you, “How was the private ride?”

“Clearly better than ours, Jeonghan, seeing as she rode with someone who actually knows how to drive. I’m surprised we made it here alive” Minnie mumbled to him.

“Stop calling me Jeonghan! It’s Nate to you” He rolled his eyes, shoving her.

“I like your Hangul name better” You told him. Nate was nice, but Jeonghan…had a ring to it.

He smiled at you, eyes crinkling, “Hmm. You’re allowed to call me whatever you want”

You laughed, and he came and swung an around you, holding you next to him. The rest of the class gathered up at the foyer, and your professor spoke, “We’ll be going straight to Karina, she’s gonna talk to each of you about her work, and we’ll spend some time looking at her portfolio. The Atelier has a reputation to withhold, and I trust you all to not mess with it. And yes by that, I mean you Jeonghan”

Jeonghan gasped dramatically, and you laughed.

The inside of the elevator was as big as your bedroom. The buttons were gold-plated, each label marking names of different managements. It seemed like a big office building, and each floor belonged to a different company. You stepped behind Jieong, letting him take the lead. He pushed a keycard, and the elevator came to life.

Familiar music started playing, and Jieong informed you, “Nobody can enter without authorisation”

“The real estate of this place…must be insane” You commented, looking around you at the gold fittings in the walls. It’s the fanciest place in the city you’ve been to, which is saying a lot, since The Art Atelier is pretty exclusive too.

Jieong leaned against the side, crossing his arms, “Well, all the floors belong to different companies. Most of them belong to Pegasus though. They’re paying for half of it”

Your head snaps to his, and surely this is all a fucking joke and somebody is messing with you big time, “Pegasus? Like…the entertainment company?”

There was no fucking way he was being serious…

He nodded, “Their headquarters are on the eighth floor. I’m sure you know most buildings downtown share offices”

Somebody has to be fucking with you.

“Hey, maybe we’ll see Baekhyun or someone again” Jeonghan laughed.

“Everything okay, Y/N?” Minnie asked, “It looks like the life drained out of you, or something”

Jeonghan grinned, pulling you into his side, “She’ll be fine. I’m sure famous people just make her nervous”

»»————-

A freak accident. That’s what this was.

Pegasus. That is where Hyunjin works.

You’re sitting in an office on the tenth floor, but you’re losing your mind. There’s art on the walls. You recognise the paintings, and they cost more than million won and you should be taking notes and appreciating them. You can’t focus on them though, not when Hyunjin is in this building somewhere.

You feel like a stalker. First Kairi, and then this. Your life is playing a cruel trick on you. You just need to get through this. It’s possible he’s not even here today — he’s a busy man. There’s a huge chance you are in and out of here, without ever encountering him. Yet you’re dying to see him.

“Make yourself comfortable. Karina will be with us soon” Professor Jieong told you all, sitting at the table. You felt like you’re going to pass out.

“Y/N. Are you okay?” Someone asked.

“I’m fine. I just…need some water” You mumbled. Your head was spinning with the revelation of where you are.

“There’s a soda machine down the hall” Your professor told you.

So, you get up and go out without a word. There’s so much life here. Jieong was right, there’s a hum of creativity in the air and the vibe is far different from Yeonjun’s office. People are walking around, clad in pantsuits and pinstripe skirts, with clipboards in hands. A woman strolled past you holding a costume rack, with the fanciest gowns you’ve seen.

You’ve never seen so much activity in one place, everybody’s in a rush. You avoided making eye contact with anyone. You felt weird, and out of place. You’re on the tenth floor. Hyunjin worked on the eighth. It’s too much distance, and it’s not enough distance.

As your eyes raked over everyone, your stomach turned with a bit of hope. You want to see him. No, you need to see him. But why would he be on a floor that isn’t his? And what would he even say if you bumped into him right now? The last time he saw you…you can’t survive a repeat of that.

The vending machine was easy enough to locate. It was fully stocked, and huge, unlike the one at your apartment building, which hardly ever worked. You reached into your purse, hoping you have enough change for a Coca-Cola.

You feel on edge in the hallway, vulnerable and out in the open. Every second feels like you’re in the wild, as you rifle through your wallet for coins. In fact, you should just fuck the soda and go back to Kim Jieong, and your apparent mentor Karina, because being out here is too dangerous for your heart.

You’re about to push the coins in, and then you’re suddenly caught off balance as somebody barrels into you.

They were running in the hallway and clearly, somebody from your class wasn’t listening to Jieong about maintain fucking decorum in the building. Coins from your hand clink to the floor, scattering in every direction, and you can’t even be bothered to care.

“Shit, I’m so fucking sorry!” A deep voice apologised. It’s a voice you don’t recognise, and you’re grateful for the unfamiliarity. You’re really not in the mood for conversation, and you feel sick to your stomach.

The stupid fucking stranger bent down, retrieving the coins you’ve left everywhere.

“I’m so sorry. I was running and I…I didn’t see you” He grimaced.

“It doesn’t matter” You mumbled, moving to step away, not really making an attempt to talk because you are not in the mood for this. You don’t care enough about this soda.

“Wait, no, what were you going to get? I can buy you a Cola” He interrupted.

You looked back at him, into the eyes of the culprit, and you froze.

Chocolate brown eyes. Dark blue hair falling to his jaw.

You don’t know him, not personally, but you recognised him. You’ve seen him splashed across gossip websites, and news articles, and in all of the pictures Hyunjin sent you.

Of all the people in the entire building, it had to be him.

He’s holding a few coins in the fist and held his palm out to you. “Sorry, the soda machine on our floor is broken again” He told you, “I came up here to get some for myself but…”

“It’s…fine”

His eyes narrowed, “I’ve never seen you on this floor before”

You faltered, “I don’t work here”

For the briefest moments, something flashed through his gaze, recognition settling into his features, “Oh…okay”

“Have a nice day” You force a smile.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands up straight with all your coins in his palm, staring after you as you walk away.

»»————-

You need to leave. Everybody was gathered around a woman in the office, and she must be the mentor you’re supposed to meet today. Most of your classmates were looking through the various portfolio pieces laid out on all the conference tables. Minnie was deeply immersed in a painting and taking notes on her phone. Jeonghan was flipping through a brochure for an art gallery and his eyes widened when he saw you walk back in.

“You’re back” He grinned.

“I’m leaving” You mumbled, grabbing your bag. You feel so childish and immature for acting out like this, but perhaps it’s time for you to take a mental health day too. Hyunjin saw you in the city, and ran from you, so it’s only fair that you run from him too. It’s not like he even knows you’re here... it’s best to just remove yourself from the situation entirely, and fuck off.

“You’re what?” Jeonghan followed you outside the room.

“I’m not feeling too well”

“But what about Karina? What am I supposed to tell Jieong?” He asked frantically, and he’s chasing after you as you make your way to the elevators. You’re surprised he cares this much.

You turned, to look at him, “It doesn’t matter. I…I really don’t want to be here.”

He frowned, “But what’s wrong? You’ve been acting really weird ever since we came here. Or…actually, you’ve been weird the past week. What happened?”

“I’m fine, Jeonghan. I’m just sick” You told him, pushing the button to make the elevator come faster, and you were too impatient to wait for it, “I’m just going to take the stairs”

He tugged at your arm, turning you to face him, “Are you kidding me? We’re on the tenth floor, Y/N” He sighed, “Look, I know we don’t know each other that well, but don’t bullshit me, please. We’re going to be seeing each other every day for a year. If things are fucked up, at least don’t lie about it to me”

You looked him in the eye, swallowing, “But…it’s really not important. I promise you’ll be the first to know when it is, okay? It’s just some shit from back home”

He frowned, “Okay but today is important, you…shouldn’t miss it, no matter what’s going on”

You pressed the button again, wishing the elevator would come faster so you could leave, “Jeonghan… I appreciate you caring. I really do, but trust me, nobody in that classroom is going to miss me, or even know that I’m gone”

“You’re kidding me” He sighed, as if he was personally offended by this, “Jieong used to talk about your art all the fucking time, before you even joined class. What makes you think he won’t notice?”

You’re not expecting to hear that, “Are you serious?”

He nodded, “He told us we had real competition to look forward to now. He was going on about how it’s been years since he’s seen such work. He really set the standards high for when you came in, Y/N. We all thought you’d be a bitch based off that but…it’s crazy. You’re actually the sweetest girl I’ve met in a while”

Despite your internal state of panic, it made you happier, “Oh…um, that’s a lot to live up to, Jeonghan”

“I know we’re still getting to know each other, but you’re a part of us now. I’m looking forward to know you even more” He smiled, reaching forward to pinch your cheek, “And see? You’re one of the only people who’s even allowed to call me by my real name”

You looked to the floor, then up at him, “Would he be mad if I left?”

“He wouldn’t be mad. Just disappointed…but…if you’re really feeling sick, I’m sure he’d understand. I can talk to him for you”

“Thank you, Jeonghan”

“Of course” He grinned, and caught you off guard by pulling you in for a half-hug. You stilled, not expecting that, but the physical contact felt nice, and you brought your arm up, to hug him back.

“I hope you feel better” He mumbled, as you pulled away, a small smile on your face. You’d made a genuine friend here, even when you weren’t trying to.

A ping rang through the floor lobby, and the elevator doors finally opened up.

You turned to step into it, but you stop short in your tracks when you look inside.

It’s a jolt to your dying heart.

Hyunjin is standing in front of you.

Your chest squeezes so you think you’re going to die.

Fucking hell.

Leaning against the elevator wall, arms crossed, his eyes widened as they fell on you. He instantly stood up straighter, ease disappearing from his body, surprise overtaking his features.

You’re sure your expression mirrors his. He was staring at you and Jeonghan, mouth parted.

Hyunjin is here. He’s in front of you.

You immediately stepped away from Jeonghan, but Hyunjin had already seen you embracing.

“Um…I’m sorry. It’s the wrong floor” Hyunjin spoke, but there’s shock in his voice, even if he’s trying to sound nonchalant. His voice was hoarse, like he’d just been singing, and exerting himself.

He leaned ahead, pushing the button to close the doors, but you can’t let him do that. He’s right here, and you need to go after him.

You turn to Jeonghan, rushed words, “I’ll…see you later”

He’s clearly confused. He chuckles, “What?”

He’s actually fucking here. It’s been so fucking long. You don’t have time to explain anything, and you don’t hesitate before stepping into the elevator, barely making it in.

The doors shut, and it’s just the two of you now.

Hyunjin was staring at you, and his hands are gripping the railing behind him, “Y/N…”

He was sweaty, and his hair was dripping wet, bangs sticking to his forehead. A white tank top hugged his body, over his sweatpants. He’s staring at you, and he looks so fucking good. Your brain is on overdrive, and you can’t process anything.

“Hyun…” You spoke. The floors are whizzing past you, and you don’t have any time. You both stepped forward at the same time, and you wrap your arms around him. He immediately hugs you back, pulling your body into his. His arms curl around your waist, and you’re on your toes, and everything is a blur. But you’re in his arms. You’re touching him, and you’re breathing him, and the void in your heart is already dissipating.

You could cry right now, because he feels the same to the touch, and his heartbeat is pounding so fast against his ribs, you can hear it.

“I missed you so much” You spoke into his neck, and your words are muffled by his hair, but he knows what you said.

“Y/N…” He whispered, hands tight around your body, and then he pulled away, “Jisung told me he saw you. I didn’t…I didn’t believe him. I had to see you myself”

“Is that why you were—”

“I was coming to see you” He interrupts you, and then his eyes dart to the elevator panel, to see what floor you’re on, “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

He must be baffled why you were at his workplace of all places in the world.

“I…I came with someone, Hyunjin, My professor…”

“Oh”

“Yeah…” You swallowed. You had so many questions. Why had he changed his number? Why hadn’t he talked to you in the store?

A part of you had doubted, if what you’d felt this summer truly was love, or if it was only infatuation…but seeing him right now, in front of you, it couldn’t have been anything else.

Every neural pathway in your brain was firing at total capacity, flooding your body with adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin, every good hormone known to man. You were giddy, and nervous, and scared, and excited.

“I…don’t have much time. I was at practice and I need to get back…” He replied, and his breaths were shaky, “Somebody could see us”

“Wait—” You stepped forward, “You can’t just leave right now. I need to—”

Hyunjin lowered his voice, urgency in his tone, “I can’t talk here, not right now, Y/N”

He couldn’t walk away from you, not now, not again. You feel like crying already at the prospect, “But—”

“Meet me in the third room in this hallway, down the left. In fifteen minutes”

“What…?”

The elevator doors opened, and Hyunjin separated from you as if you’d electrified him.

There was a group of people outside waiting, and anybody could have seen you close to him right now. He stepped out hurriedly, saying nothing else. People flood into the elevator, but you’re still staring at him walking away.

Before disappearing around the corner, he turned to glance at you over his shoulder, and the surprise is still pure in his eyes. You used to hate these stolen glances, but right now… you live for it.

»»————-

The fifteen minutes dragged on at a snail’s pace. You don’t think time had ever been this slow, and your eyes strayed to your phone every few minutes, which only made time stop. You were pacing the hallway, clutching your bag in hand, eyes on all the different plaques of achievements hung on the wall. You recognised the band name, Urban Faeries, on multiple awards, and it brought pride to your soul, but you’re not really thinking straight.

You’re pacing, back and forth, and you drew a few suspicious looks but you hope they believe you’re just another stressed employee working here. The time is up before you know it. The third room, to your left, he had said. You stared at the unmarked white doors. You’d never live it down if you accidentally walked into a conference room, or an executive meeting. But you’d just have to trust your gut. You pushed open a door, stepping inside quickly.

You weren’t sure what you had expected. It was…a storage room. It's less fancy than the rest of this building. Racks and racks of clothing, and outfits were arranged on the sides. Stage costumes. They were all in plastic wrapping, like wedding dresses at a bridal boutique, and you could see the outfits underneath.

It had been ten minutes since you were here, and you’re staring at your phone, wondering if you were in the wrong room. He’s not here yet, and there’s a lump building in your throat. Minutes more pass, and you end up looking through the outfits hung on the rack. Sequinned jackets, tight bodysuits, leather pants. It was all so beautiful, and you imagined it all on him. There was a sheer top with lace sleeves. You shouldn’t, but you touched it, reading the tag on it.

Hwang, Hyunjin. KBS Gayo Daejon 2023.

So it was his. You had no idea he wore things like this, and you had a sudden overwhelming desire to see him in it. Lace covered every inch of it.

“You like that?” A familiar voice infiltrated your thoughts.

You were startled, letting go off it instantly. You felt embarrassed, like a kid caught stealing from a cookie jar, but all your feelings dissipated upon seeing him.

“Hyunjin” You realised.

He leaned against the wooden door, letting out a breath, like he’d run here. His gaze was on the bodysuit you’d just been eyeing. He continued speaking, nonchalant, “I personally think it’s a bit much. I don’t see the big deal, but the fans…they love it”

“It looks…great” You said, eyes drifting to the costume rack.

“I’m supposed to wear it, later this year”

You’re lost on what he’s saying. You just can’t believe you’re actually seeing him in front of you, flesh and blood.

There’s a singular lightbulb in the room, and it hangs from the ceiling, swaying back and forth lightly. Shelves surround you on both sides, and there’s only a narrow aisle to stand in. His back is flush to the door, and his arm reaches behind him, turning the doorknob until you hear a clicking sound.

He’d just locked you in with him.

You blurted the first thing that came to your mind, “Are you okay, Hyunjin?”

So much was on your mind, but that was the only thing that mattered. If the boy you loved was okay, then you would be okay too.

He breathed in, like every word was a struggle, and he was still catching his breath, “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay…You?”

Now that he was here, you realised how small this room was. He took up so much space here, as he did in your heart. Twenty minutes ago, when you saw him…you were too shocked to process it, but now your eyes drifted over his figure. The white tank top fits his body in all the right places. It’s like every day away from you only made him prettier. You nodded, “I’m…okay”

Then his gaze raked over you. You suddenly feel conscious for the way you’re dressed. It’s different from how you used to in Daejon, and he realises that too. It’s more expensive than you’re used to. It’s artsy, like all the other kids in your class. You wonder if he hates it, but his gaze lingers on the strapless top and the silver pendant hanging from your neck. You recognise the look in his eyes, and it’s certainly not hate.

Your heart pounds at his gaze. The room suddenly feels even smaller now.

“Who was that?” He cleared his throat, “The…boy you were with”

“He’s another student…at The Atelier. I’m here with my class…”

“Oh…” His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and you tried to focus on his words, “So you’re here with Kim Jieong?”

You nodded. You’re so nervous. You’re fiddling with your fingers, “Yes”

In the little light of the bulb, you saw his lip curl up, “I knew that you’d get in”

He has such an effect on you, because just those words made you smile, “Yeah?”

In an instant it’s like all those months and weeks have been forgotten. It feels like there was no distance between you. Like catching up with an old friend after years, everything clicks into place like puzzle pieces that fit together.

“I told you, didn’t I?” He tilt his head, hair falling into his eyes, and he looked smug.

You clasped your hands behind your back, “You did…”

He continued, a little smirk playing at his lips, “I knew that you’d get into the program. I had a feeling that they’d made a mistake”

You’re smiling now, and your cheeks already hurt from the unfamiliarity of this action. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this way, “You’re proud of me?”

His features softened and he stepped towards you, “Is that really a question? Even when you hadn’t got in… I’d still be proud, but yeah…I’m so proud of you”

“Thank you” Your voice fell, chest warm, and you feel so shy, “You… always had faith in me”

“Is it everything that you imagined?”

“The art program?”

He bit his lower lip, “Mmh, and the city. Has Seoul been nice to you? Hopefully, nicer than it has to me”

You shrugged, “It’s been nice. I…made a few friends. I have a nice apartment. It faces a busy street…It kind of sucked that I didn’t get to share any of it with you”

His expression changed, “Sorry”

Tentatively, you took a step towards him. There’s only little space left between you now, but you’re both being so careful. It’s like a magnet between you two, you’re hovering but not getting too close, not touching.

You know that if he touches you, it’ll be the end of you.

“What’s going on, Hyunjin? Why did you ask me to meet you in here?”

He sighed, gaze darting to the corners of the ceiling, “It’s the only place in the building they don’t have cameras”

“Oh…” Everything suddenly made a lot of sense.

His voice softened, “Don’t worry. Nobody’s supposed to come in here right now. I checked all the schedules”

You have so many questions, but somehow you ask him the least important one, “The woman in the store with you. Was she your girlfriend?”

You regret it as soon as you ask. It makes you sound envious, and jealous. It paint a picture of you that’s not true. Sure, you’ve wondered about her identity all these weeks, but…she hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. There’s more at stake here.

Still, Hyunjin’s eyebrows shoot up, “What?”

You feel stupid repeating, “When I saw you, you were with a girl…”

“No. No, she’s just my manager, Y/N”

“Is that why you pretended to not know me when you saw me?” It comes out harsher than you intended, but you don’t have time to ease into it. You need to know, because it’s bothered you for so long.

He swallowed, and guilt flashes over him. “Yeah. The manager I was with... She’s one of the less forgiving ones”

It eases the slight ache in your chest, but you’re not done. There’s an explanation for why he acted this way, but he’s not attempting to explain the rest.

“Why did you disappear, Hyunjin…?”

He swallowed, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean — You changed your number all of a sudden. Do you know how hard I was trying to reach out to you?”

His fists are balled up at his side, digging into the material of his sweatpants. You feel a little bad for questioning him like this, and putting him on the stand, but you deserve to know.

“I’m sorry. I had to. I was afraid…” He trailed off, and it’s half-hearted.

So you pushed for more, “Afraid of what?”

He looked at you, straight, “I was afraid they’d find out about you. I couldn’t risk it. You know everything that’s been going on in my life, Y/N. With Chan and Jisung…I couldn’t let them get into more trouble because of me”

It hurts to hear that you’re only seen as trouble in his life. You’ve heard of many idols and celebrities who date, fall in love and marry. Why is it only an issue when you’re the one in love?

“I understand that, but…you could’ve told me. I was so fucking confused for months, and I thought I fucked up somehow. Did I do something wrong, Hyunjin?”

“What?” His voice raised a pitch, like he couldn’t believe you asked him that.

You tried not to cry, “I mean…I must have done something, for you to act this way towards me…you cut me off, with no explanation…”

You didn’t care anymore if you sounded needy, clingy, or desperate. You’d been craving an explanation all these weeks, and now that he was here…you couldn’t leave without getting one.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong, Y/N” He stepped closer, until his chest is inches from yours, “I had no control of the situation…and I couldn’t risk contacting you”

You swallowed, “But why…didn’t you just tell me what was going on? I was…in the dark, for months”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you. I just didn’t know how”

“Tell me now…please”

“They went through Chan’s phone” He blurted, “After everything with Kairi went down. They were worried that something would leak and I…I couldn’t deal with that. So in the store…I couldn’t talk to you. Please believe that…especially not in front of her. It would’ve been hell explaining who you are”

He’s right. What good would it have done? The woman you were wondering about…she was just his manager. You knew that, of course. But still, it’s like you’re strangled by a lasso of truth as you blurted, “I was …jealous”

Hyunjin’s expression changed, and he tilt his head, “You were?”

He’s questioning you, yet there’s pride in his voice, like he’s happy that he had that effect on you, even if he didn’t intend to.

“She treats me like I’m a kid, Y/N” He tells you, with a slight chuckle, “She’s married and…way older than us”

The ache in your chest has subsided, “I don’t know. Maybe you’re into older women like her”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, and there’s a playfulness in his voice. It truly feels like all of those months had been forgotten, “That’s a nice way to get fired”

“You can get fired?”

There is amusement in his features, “It’s a job, Y/N. Of course I can get fired…and anyway, does Kim Jieong know you’re here with me?”

You looked into his eyes, “Nobody knows I’m here…”

He nodded, relief sinking into his shoulders, “That’s good because—”

Hyunjin is interrupted by a loud sound.

You’re confused…until your attention turns to the door. The knob is turning…

Somebody’s trying to get in.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you panic. “Is someone—?”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He clasps a hand over your mouth before you can speak, pushing you to the wall by his body, “Don’t say anything, please”

In a daze, you nod. Over his shoulder, you can see the knob struggling to turn. It’s met with resistance — The lock seems to be holding up.

“Hello?” An unfamiliar voice of a man asks, “Is anybody in there?”

“Shit” Hyunjin drops his head against yours, whispering, “I forgot to check for maintenance”

His palm is flush against your lips, and you’re glad he’s physically stopping you because your anxious breaths could surely be heard outside. You’re so nervous. You don’t know what would happen if someone finds you two here like this. Based on everything he’s been telling you, absolutely nothing good.

Suddenly, you feel guilty. He’s in here because of you. He can get fired because of you. You would never forgive yourself if he has to deal with any consequences, because of your existence, and instantly you understand why he did what he did. All your anger and confusion dissipates, and understanding sinks into you.

The door budges as somebody tries to kick it in, and the person on the other side curses loudly, “Is this door fucking broken again?”

You’re holding your breath too hard. You need to calm down. Your hands find their way to his waist, crumpling his shirt. You’re pinching at his skin, but he doesn’t care. He can hear your heartbeat, pounding so loudly. Silently, with just his eyes, Hyunjin asks if he can drop the hand.

You nod. He pulls his hand back and his palm is wet with your saliva. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t even wipe it. He just stays in place, eyes locked onto yours. You couldn’t move… even if you wanted to. You’re frozen to your spot and caged by his body. It towers over you.

“Don’t worry…They’ll leave soon” Hyunjin reassures you, in a whisper.

You’re lucky he remembered to lock it. It’s undoubtedly a compromising position to be seen in. In a dark corner of the storage room —your bodies are squeezed together. He is dripping with sweat; you can feel it sticking to your skin. You can feel every muscle in his stomach, pressing to yours.

Your eyes meet each other, and they stay. It’s so quiet in here, you could hear a pin drop.

It’s as if he’s looking right into your soul, no words exchanged, but his eyes say everything. Like you’re challenging each other to some staring contest, seeing who would give in first, but neither of you do. You’re burning, pierced by his strong gaze but you look back at him, sight not leaving his for even a second.

He’s breathing so heavily — running on hormones and adrenaline, and his chest is moving in sync with yours. You can hear his heart thud erratically. It’s loud and frantic in a way he can’t control it. He was near you after so long.

“What if…they get in?” Your voice is shaking, you hardly recognize it.

“They won’t” He whispers.

There’s so much need you need to ask Hyunjin. He’s been out of your life for months, but the only thing that matters right now is the feel of his body against yours.

One of his arms is against the wall. The other is flexed with how tight he’s holding you. He’s been working out. Right now, he’s drenched in sweat.

You’re dizzy with want. He’s trying, but failing at looking at how you’re pressed to him.

His gaze falls to your chest, then back into your eyes, almost shameless.

Your top hardly leaves anything to the imagination, squeezing your tits against his chest, and his gaze is fixated on it, dropping down every few seconds.

You’re not saying anything, but nothing needs to be said. A sweltering desire courses through your veins.

It’s impossibly hot — hiding in here with him.

You’re electrified by his gaze. It swirls with a thousand unspoken things.

This is fucking stupid considering the circumstances. You could be caught right now, and everything would be over then.

Slowly, your hand moves over his shoulder. You squeeze his bicep in your hand, feeling him up, and his heart beats the same but his body is different. He feels stronger to your touch, like he’s been dancing for hours on end, using up all his energy.

“You…feel different” You whisper in realisation. There’s muscle now where there wasn’t before. His breath hitches, like he’s holding everything in, and his eyes fall shut. His body has changed in your absence, and you hate it, and you love it. You hate that he’s not how you remember, but you love that there’s more of him to know. More of him to touch, and discover and feel.

He’s so close that his hair is falling into your face. He tilts his head to give you space to breathe. It only makes it worse because now his nose brushes against yours. There’s barely an inch between you.

What happened in these few months? You need to sit with him, and talk for days about it. You want to tell him everything you kept to yourself, every incident, every joke, every dream, every morning, afternoon and night. You want to kiss every part of him, so your lips remember his again. So it’s muscle memory, and so he’s never a stranger to you.

The mind forgets, but the body remembers.

Therefore, you can only blame it on your body right now that it’s horrible timing but you’re so fucking turned on.

The distance between your lips is nonexistent.

He’s breathing your air, and you’re breathing his.

You should move away now, but you don’t. Hyunjin’s breaths are shaky, and his hands on you are so tight, like he’s afraid to let go. Your breaths are shaky too, they’re desperate and no amount of air in the world can bring you calm.

You want to be even closer than you are, and you press yourself to him, but the only way to be closer than this is if he were inside you.

There’s no more sounds from the other side of the door.

And then his plush lips part to say, “I… think they’re gone”

Saying that was his first mistake, because as he speaks, his mouth brushes against yours, tenderly, so delicately.

Your heart jumps. You can’t control yourself. Slowly, you press forward, taking his lower lip between yours. Hyunjin tilts his head, so his lips fit perfectly between yours, but you’re not kissing, not yet.

You’re both not moving an inch, but you are biting down on his lower lip, and Hyunjin lets out a whine. It emerges from deep within his chest. His fingers dig into your waist, thumbs slipping under the top, to feel more of your skin. You tug at his lower lip with your teeth, pulling it. A rushed moan fills the room, and you soothe the bite with your tongue, but you’re still not kissing.

You grab his hands in your own, fingers circling around his dainty wrists. Silver bracelets clink against each other, as you move his hands up your body. You want him to touch you. He takes the invitation and raises his hands to your top, cupping your chest. Does he remember your body? You feel so much. Too much.

Hyunjin’s other hand slides into your hair, his fingers on the nape of your neck making you dizzy. Long, thin fingers with silver rings card through your hair, his nails brushing your scalp, and your heart stills. The jewellery he wears is different now, but you feel the same kind of insane.

But he still doesn’t kiss you.

He just tilts your head, so he can lean in, pressing a kiss into your neck instead. Your eyes flutter shut from the pleasure, and you can only focus on the sensation of his mouth. His mouth, that drops kisses along your neck now, a trail of spit and lust. You moan at the sensation, and it’s too loud.

“No…You have to be quiet” He whispers into your neck as he sucks on it. His voice is the same kind of sexy, but he’s never commanded you like this before. He kisses every inch of skin on your neck, moving closer and closer to your mouth.

A trail of kisses, up and over your jaw, until his lips finally meets yours. His second mistake is giving in. He closes the remaining distance, your hair bunched into his fist, and neither of you are breathing anymore because his mouth is crushed to yours.

All those months disappear into nothingness as you slip your tongue into his mouth. It’s what happens every time someone puts you and him in a room together.

You kiss him with desperation and Hyunjin kisses you in hunger. He pushes his tongue in, and you’re making out like your life depends on it. He doesn’t stop squeezing your tits, fondling them through the thin fabric of your top. The material does nothing to hide how turned on you are, but you can’t be embarrassed. Not when you can feel his crotch pressing into your leg, and he’s just as turned on.

His hands are everywhere on your body, finding their home on your waist, and he pulls you into him so your back arches off the wall. There’s no words exchanged and it’s primal in every sense. The air is filled with your breaths, and whines.

He’s burning up. You push him, until he’s pressed to the door instead. Hyunjin stumbles back from the force.

It’s like you want to be caught. The very door that separates you from the rest of the world. The only thing standing between you and total annihilation. It’s hotter this way, and you press your body to his, moulding your mouth to his, hands running through his hair. He lets out a moan that travels straight to your heart which is beating faster than it has in a long time. There’s a fire in it, and every touch of his skin against yours blazes it more.

He turns you around, until you’re pressed to the door instead. He grabs your thigh, pulling your leg up so it’s wrapped around his waist, and he’s grinding his crotch against yours. You can feel him in your core and you pull back to breathe, moaning, “Hyun…” You’re not thinking, only feeling him in every single atom of your body.

You tug at the drawstrings of his sweatpants. You need to take them off. You need him now more than ever. Hyunjin is your annihilation.

He realises what you’re doing, and he pulls away in a daze, spit-coated lips, “Wait, wait, Y/N…”

“What?” You mumble, kissing his jaw.

His eyes are squeezed shut, “Shit. Wait…stop, we can’t do this”

And you can only whine, pulling him back to you, “You say that every time”

His voice drops, a bitterness to it as if he’s just had some grand fucking epiphany, “Fuck. No, We can’t…”

He says that, but Hyunjin is a hypocrite because when you push your tongue into his mouth, he lets you. He tastes so good, and kissing him feels coming home. It feels like what you’d been missing this whole time and kissing him makes you feel alive.

He mumbles, against your mouth, “We… need to stop”

You pull back, only slightly, “But …nobody is going to know. You said it yourself, nobody’s coming in”

You lean forward to kiss him, but he moves his head away before you can. You’re too much in a daze to be hurt by this rejection. He shakes his head and steps away, as if he’s trying to wake himself out of his dream, “No, we can’t. Not like this”

“But…we’re just kissing—”

“No…this isn’t okay, Y/N. None of this is.”

You fall quiet, and his words are swirling in the room all around you. Your mind is having a hard time process them. You’re in a lust-driven daze, and you brace yourself against the door to catch your breath, “What do you mean…by that?”

He breathes in, snapping out of the lust, “We’re making out…in a fucking storage closet. Do you not see how much is wrong with that?”

His tone stings you. “I mean…I don’t Hyunjin. That’s what we’ve always done. The photobooth…the—”

“That’s exactly what I mean!” His voice raises all of a sudden, but he realises and lowers it again, “We shouldn’t have to sneak away to…to do this. I’m so sick of this…”

Your heart wakes up, but only because it’s suddenly hurting again. His lips are swollen from kissing you, but he’s speaking everything you hate.

Your chest hurts like it’s going to collapse. “You’re sick…of…me?”

He looks at you, distressed eyes, “No…of…of the guilt…”

Since when has Hyunjin felt guilty? And for what? “What are you saying, Hyun?”

“Are you not mad at me?”

“What for…?”

He let out a frustrated sigh, “I stopped talking to you…but you don’t seem angry at all”

“I thought you did that because you were forced to by your managers, by the company… Is that…not true?”

He looked right at you, a bitter chuckle, “Nobody forced me to do anything, Y/N. I wasn’t even supposed to see you today, but…after Jisung told me he met you in the hallway, I couldn’t focus on practice. The routine is usually muscle memory to me, but I forgot every fucking step, because… I realised you were here. But you need to know I didn’t come in here to kiss you. I just wanted to talk to you”

You swallow, crossing your arms against your chest, and your heart is still calming down, “Okay. Talk”

He breathes in, running a hand over his face, “I… lied to you, Y/N”

“About…what?”

“Everything that we talked about” He’s scaring you, “I told you that when you moved here that I’d take you to the studio, to watch me record my fucking music”

“Yeah?” You don’t know where he’s going with this.

“But I obviously can’t do that” He takes a breath, and it feels like he’s on the verge of a panicking, "I can’t…bring you to the recording studio. I can’t paint with you. I can’t show you my routines, or any of the things I promised you. You see that, right? I mean, even just to talk to you, I have to do it away from everyone. This is…insane. I don’t know why the hell I said all of that”

He's spiralling, and you need to calm him because he’s so fucking hard on himself, “That doesn’t mean you lied, Hyunjin. You said that because you wanted it to be true, didn’t you?”

“That’s the thing! It can never be true, Y/N. You don’t see that?” His negativity…hurts you.

“I called you in here to tell you this, but I forgot the way you make me fucking feel” He says, “I wasn’t…prepared to see you”

You hear everything he’s saying but it’s wrong. You couldn’t be a part of the life that he promised you, but you didn’t care. You don’t need to do all the things that you cannot. He’s bothered by something that you don’t even mind. All you know is that you can’t go more months without him. You can’t go a second more in your life without him.

You’d convinced yourself that you could never tell him your feelings because it would scare him away. But right now, you need to tell him. Time away from him was cruelty. It was insanity, and it’s something you never want to subject yourself to ever again.

You‘ve never loved anybody as much as him, and you never will.

He needs to know that. His lip is quivering, and he looks guilty, and scared. You have to tell him, before he says something he’ll regret. Maybe if you were more prepared, your confession of love would be in a beautiful place.

Like the top of the Chateau…That night, under the stars, he told you he found comfort in you.

Hyunjin was always the more romantic one.

So you can’t blame yourself for not thinking this through. After all, how could you have planned for everything that happened? A series of accidents, of coincidences that led you to him, over and over again. No matter how much life tried to pull you apart, you found each other.

It was fate.

“I don’t care, Hyunjin”

“What?”

You step closer to him, “I don’t care if I have to kiss you in a storage closet for the rest of my life. I would choose that any day”

His lips part. He’s surprised. But you can’t hold back your feelings anymore. That has got you nowhere.

You pull him close, “I don’t care about all that, I just…I just want you”

His eyes widen, “Why would you ever choose this?”

“That’s…up to me” You swallow. He’s staring at you. It doesn’t matter that your grand declaration of love won’t be in a place as beautiful as him. It doesn’t matter where you are right now, you need to tell him the truth.

The truth — I went insane in my life without you.

The truth — I literally cannot breathe if you’re not near me.

The truth — I love you so much that my chest hurts.

“Did he kiss you?”

His question catches you so off guard, that your eyes dart up to his, “What? Who?”

He lets go of your hand, “Yongbok”

Where the fuck did that come from?

Your eyebrows knit together, and you’re so confused.

Yongbok doesn’t matter right now. You frown, “I don’t want to talk about him”

Hyunjin nods, “So…he kissed you”

You’re lost for words. You thought you two were more mature than this, “So that’s what this is about that? You’re acting this way because you’re jealous?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, “Yeah. I am. I am jealous, Y/N. It kills me to know that he’s known you all your life, and I can’t even have you to myself for one entire summer”

“But nobody is stopping you from having me”

“Everything is stopping me!” He cries out.

You flinch.

His voice falls again, and you can feel his distress, “I’m afraid, okay? I’m fucking scared that they’ll find about you and—“

“And what?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, “You’re going to get hurt. You’re not stupid, Y/N, and you fucking know that better than anyone”

“How can you be so sure of that? You’re the one that’s making decisions that hurt me, I mean I couldn’t even tell you I got into the stupid program because you cut me out from your life, all because you’re afraid of something that hasn’t even happened? Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong? What are you so afraid of?!”

He falls quiet, and he isn’t looking at you anymore. He stepped back, inhaling deeply, as if to anchor himself. His eyes meet yours, “You…shouldn’t have come here, Y/N”

Your voice breaks, “Why?”

“It would have made everything a hell of a lot easier”

“What would it make easier?”

He swallowed, “Having to stay apart from you”

He says things like that so easily, and his words bury deep into your skin.

Your voice broke, but you’re not done fighting for him, “I thought you missed me. I’m not afraid to admit that I did, okay? I missed you every second I was away from you—”

“I called you in here to say goodbye”

Your voice is merely a whisper, “What?”

His lip is quivering, “I wanted to see you…because this is the last time”

“You don’t mean that…”

There’s a tightness in your chest. You can’t breathe.

He swallows, “You and I both knew that what we had in Daejon…it couldn’t be anything else”

“Please don’t say that”

He looks to the floor, away from you, “I’m sorry”

You don't understand. Things were just okay, “Are you being like this… because of Chan’s break up?”

His tone changes harshly, “That has nothing to do with you”

You swallow, staring at him. Your eyes fill up with tears. You thought this stupid storage closet would be where you finally tell him you love him.

He doesn’t pull you in to comfort you, like he’s always done. He just looks at you, glistening eyes and his lip is quivering.

This can’t be it. There’s more to you and him, and this isn’t fucking it. Then his phone buzzes. Hyunjin ignores it at first.

Until it gets constant, and he sighs, “I’m sorry. I need to take this. You have to go, Y/N”

His words shake you to the core, and you can’t speak.

“Can you just please make sure nobody sees you when you leave?” He asks, strained, “I know you hate me right now…but please”

You nod. You have nothing to say. Even in this moment, you love him more than you ever have.

You’re so stupid. You thought nothing in the world could make you let go of him but just like always, Hyunjin is one step ahead.

He’s already let go of you.

»»————-

masterlist ⇒

please let me know if you liked the chapter, or any thoughts on this part! thank you :)

#hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin smut #angst #friends to lovers #skz x reader #skz imagines #hwang hyunjin x reader

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